Defining Normal
by Baroqy
Summary: Bobby's plan to give Sam and Dean a simple, probably-not-a-possession job turns ugly. Takes place near the end of season 4. Angst and whumping and humor. So it's a mixed bag.
1. Chapter 1

**Defining Normal**

**Summary**: Bobby's plan to give Sam and Dean a simple, probably-not-a-possession job turns ugly. Takes place near the end of season 4. Angst and whumping and humor. So it's a mixed bag.

**Spoilers**: As above. Don't read if you haven't seen season 4.

**Genre**: General

**Characters**: Dean and Sam (naturally). Bobby. O/C characters.

**Rating**: M (for sailor talk)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural, Dean or Sam but I do own this laptop. I'm borrowing Dean and Sam for a while but promise to return them washed, dried and neatly folded.

**Thanks**: To my friend who got me hooked on Supernatural after four years of telling me to watch it. Now I'm writing fanfic. Is that any way to treat a friend?

**Author Notes**: This story tries to show both Sam and Dean's POV's near the end of season 4. In other words, no one starts drinking demon blood without motivation and big brothers don't suddenly bounce back from torture. Consequently I struggled to write this story and now loathe it with a white hot irradiating heat like the molten core of the sun. The only reason I'm posting this is to get it out of my hair. Oh, and it's complete. I will be posting chapters as I complete final edits. Expect a new chapter every couple of days.

{\\SN//}

It was night. Seven to be exact. Sam drove the Impala through Fulton county, Arkansas, aiming for the state line into Missouri. He'd peeled off the 9 and into Republican Road, figuring a drive through the back country would be a good way to avoid the unnecessary attention you attracted when you set a church on fire. Deliberately. To kill a nest of vampires hiding out in the church's mausoleum.

The vampires had taken it upon themselves to convert the church's congregation to a life of sin and feed on the left overs. If nothing else the vampires definitely had a sense of macabre irony.

Dean sat next to him, worse for wear. He'd been knocked around, had scratches and cuts that needed to be doused with holy water. He was also sporting a livid bruise on his cheek and a split lip. When they'd briefly stopped for gas half an hour back, he'd staggered out of the car like an old man.

"Fucking vampires," muttered Dean. "Always with the sneak attacks."

"It wasn't a sneak attack. She was sitting in the pews. You could spot her a mile away."

Dean glared at him. "Oh, I'm sorry – I didn't think an 80-year old woman who needed a walking frame was gonna be a threat."

"An 80-year old vampire woman. Dude, what part of superhuman powers did you forget?"

"My guard was down. Besides, those vampires were weird. And not sexy."

"Converted senior citizens were never going to be sexy."

Dean dabbed at the slow ooze of blood from his bottom lip with a tissue. "All I'm saying is that I can usually spot a vampire due to their good looks and emo-dress sense. Not their varicose veins and short sightedness."

Sam laughed. "_That's _how you spot vampires? Good looks?"

"That, and the teeth. The teeth confirm it."

Sam thought about it a moment. Having to stake a guy who looked like an overweight accountant just seemed a whole lot creepier than usual. "Okay, yeah... Actually, I'm in agreement with you. That was strange."

"Besides, even if she was a vampire, no way am I ever going feel good about punching an old lady in the face." Dean settled back against the passenger side window, folded his arms across his chest. "I'm gonna try and sleep. Wake me when we get anywhere that has food and beer."

Sam nodded. Food and beer would be a great idea. Just as soon as they hit Missouri and kept driving for another two hours. However, since they were the Winchesters and their lives were just one long roller coaster of stomach churning brushes with all that was unholy as soon as he crossed the state line his cellphone started ringing.

He fished out the phone, checked the caller ID. Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby. What's up?"

"You boys free for a job?"

Sam glanced over at Dean. His brother's head was against the glass, resting on the corner of the passenger seat. Asleep already.

"We were hoping to take a break," said Sam. He wasn't lying. He was hoping for a couple of days just to unwind, maybe make some money, and not set any houses of worship on fire. He couldn't speak for Dean of course.

"Look, I know you boys have been busy of late but... Well, it's a favor for a friend of mine."

"Yeah? What's the problem?"

"Cheryl McTierney. She thinks she's got a possession on her hands."

"Thinks?"

"She can't confirm but the woman has good instincts and I owe her. I'd do it myself but I've got a whole bunch of tax paperwork I have to take care of."

"You're more scared of the IRS than demons?"

"Damn straight."

"Okay. Yeah, we'll take it. What's the address?"

"49 East Maple, Swisstown, South Dakota."

"What's happening?" Dean was semi-awake and trying to determine what Sam was talking about. Or who he was talking _to_.

"And Sam," said Bobby. "Cheryl's a nice lady and she's not stupid about the supernatural. She's gonna pay you a fee and she's got a place for you to stay that's pretty decent. So don't let Dean piss her off."

Dean was getting irritated. "Who're you talking to?"

"It's Bobby," he replied to his brother. Then he continued the phone conversation. "We should be there tomorrow."

"Thanks. It means a lot to me."

"No problems."

Dean reached over to grab the phone. "Let me talk to him."

"Sure." Sam handed the phone to Dean and concentrated on driving and making sure he remembered the address.

"Hey, Bobby."

Sam listened in briefly to the rest of the conversation but it was hard figuring out what was happening when it was all one-sided. As always with Dean, it was mostly about nothing much. Dean had always been good at the nothing-much conversation. Even more accomplished at it than their father. John Winchester had been a man of grunted acknowledgements, to-the-point exchanges, and barked commands. Dean had taken it a step further by being able to appear to have a meaningful conversation, when in fact it was really about nothing at all. They could talk for hours in the car about a variety of crap and it was, in the end, completely pointless. After four years together there was fuck all to talk about anyway. Even less when you told your brother to stop whining. Because, yeah, torture was really nothing more than a boo-boo.

Dean closed the phone, handed it back to Sam. "Did you know South Dakota has the world's largest pheasant?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Bobby told me. It's 28-feet high. Made of fiberglass and steel. We have to check it out. It's in Huron."

"You want to go and look at a pheasant?"

"Yeah. After the case. We'll visit Bobby and then go visit the pheasant."

So, this is what it came down to now. Stilted conversations and, in the space of five minutes, an itinerary to go and look at a gigantic fake pheasant. Then again, Dean had been begging to see the world's largest ball of twine for months and they'd passed through Minnesota four times already. Or was it five? Maybe a fake, giant, fiberglass bird was what they needed to lighten the load a little, and maybe give Dean a break. Maybe it would make up for telling his brother to stop whining.

Sam grinned. "Sure. It'll be fun."

Dean nodded, smiled back. A job, a pay check of sorts, a place to stay and a 28-foot high pheasant.

Things were looking up for the Winchesters.

\\{SN}//

The motel in Missouri was one of their worst picks. A busted fridge, mold, and a toilet that you prayed that you didn't have to use, but were going to have to anyway. The shower walls were the color of coffee grounds. Not because the tiles were colored brown but because no one had cleaned them in months.

Dean eyed the bathroom with wariness. "That explains the vacancy sign."

Sam eyed a piece of crumpled wallpaper that appeared to trying to slide down the wall but was arrested in mid slide. If Dean was worried, it confirmed that the level of sanitation was at an all time low. But it was either the motel or the car and they both hated sleeping in the car.

"I'm sleeping on the covers and I vote we steal something." Dean continued the conversation while surveying the room for items to purloin. He moved to the kitchenette with a slight limp and rummaged around in the drawers until he found something he considered worthy. "Like this teaspoon."

He shoved the teaspoon into his duffel bag.

Sam just shook his head. "How many does that make now?"

"Fifteen."

"What are you planning to do with fifteen teaspoons?"

Dean paused like he'd never considered the answer before. "Don't know but if we ever need to stir lots of coffee, we're made."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Is your leg bothering you?"

"No. It's my back. I think I pulled a muscle when the old lady threw her walking frame at my head. Now shut up and help me try and get the coffee maker off the wall."

Sam looked at the coffeemaker, hard wired into the wall and chained to the top of the kitchen bench. It was late and he was too tired to play DIY electrician.

"Dean."

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

\\{SN}//

The next day they drove the Chevy through Missouri, cut up the middle of Iowa and Nebraska on the 29, straight into South Dakota before taking a left at the 90. Their destination was nowhere near the giant pheasant. It was a small sleeper town about an hour away from Rapid City.

The address Bobby gave them lead to a large Victorian two-story house with a tidy lawn, a rose garden, and a picket fence. It looked peaceful and well heeled and normal. They parked the Impala right outside the house and it couldn't have looked more out of place. Pretty suburban street, up market houses, and one muscle car that might belong to serial killers.

Dean took a few extra minutes to haul himself out of the Impala. Placed a hand on his lower back.

"Son of a bitch. What'd that old lady do to me?"

Sam walked around the other side, then crossed the sidewalk to open the gate. Walked slowly so Dean could keep up.

"Should we be taking this job if your back is so messed up?"

"It's not messed up," replied Dean. "It's a kink in a muscle. I'll do some stretches and it'll be fine. Stop being such a girl about everything."

"If you wind up in hospital, don't blame me."

"Believe me I won't. Samantha."

"Samantha. Hah, hah. It's always funny when you say that."

They made it up the three short steps, onto the porch and Sam rang the doorbell. They heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors before the door opened.

A woman in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, stood in the entrance and sized them up. She was dressed in jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt that had seen better days, and couldn't have been more than five feet, two inches tall. Her hair was gray and tied back in a ponytail. She had a smudge of flour on her forehead, blue eyes and an expression that made it clear she wasn't going to stand for any nonsense.

"What?"

Sam took the lead. As always.

"I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean..."

He didn't get a chance to finish. She grabbed his hand, shook it, then gestured that they should both come into the house. "Oh. Bobby told me about you. I'm Cheryl if you hadn't guessed."

She didn't bother to check if they were following, just headed for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Shut the door behind you. I was just baking cookies."

Sam glanced at Dean, and it was like watching some narc dog catch a whiff of marijuana. His entire focus was in the general direction of the kitchen.

They both stepped inside, Sam politely did as he'd been told and shut the door. They followed their noses to find the woman armed with a baker's slide shoveling industrial quantities of cookies onto cooling racks.

"Damn bake sales. Too much work. I don't know why I keep volunteering."

She gave them a once over at that point, her eye scanning them for any signs of dishonesty, or out and out hunter craziness. They seemed to pass the test because she went back to her task and popped another tray of cookie dough into the oven.

Dean meanwhile, began fixating on the cookies. Sam noticed his eyes were flicking between her and the cookies, his face wearing an expression that said he's probably died and gone to Heaven but he wasn't entirely sure.

At least he was predictable.

Cheryl noticed too. "You want one?"

Dean hesitated. Sam knew that Dean's instincts were telling him that they had no idea who this woman was, that she could be a witch, and that she could be baking for the sole purpose of fattening up small children and using them as the main ingredient in a human hamburger.

"Hey, go ahead, I've got some spare. Take one from the container. They should be cool enough to eat by now. You're not allergic to nuts or anything are you?"

Caution and willpower gave out about three seconds later. "Are you sure?" Dean asked to be polite.

Cheryl said,"Sure I'm sure. I'm not exactly in short supply at the moment."

Sam continued the adult portion of the conversation while Dean reached for the prize. "So, Bobby said you may have a problem."

"Yeah, I run a Marigold troop and-" Cheryl never got a chance to finish.

"-Oh my God, these are fucking AWESOME!"

They stopped. Dean had a mouthful of cookie, bliss written all over his face and he seemed to have already lost interest in the job. "Sam, you gotta try one. The inside is soft and the chocolate is gooey and I think there's pecans in here."

Sam shook his head. Dean reached for the container, thrust it under his brother's nose. "No. Seriously. Try one. You have to try one."

"Not now."

"Yes, now."

Sam shook his head again and his brother reluctantly put the container back down on the counter. This current interaction summed it up. Dean had been sliding between general crankiness and complete distraction for months now. His mood was good one day, his mood not so good for a lot of days and that seemed to have been the theme ever since he came back from hell. It was hard to keep up with the swings and roundabouts of exactly where Dean happened to be in terms of his emotional state on any given day. Today, Sam thought, was a pretty good day, except for Dean's complete inability to concentrate in the presence of food.

Cheryl finished scooping another batch onto a cooling tray, then wiped her hands. "That's the last of them for now. Why don't I get coffee and we can go talk in the living room?"

Dean was still chewing, but seemed happy to mumble his agreement. She grabbed a couple of mugs, filled them up, gave one to Dean, one to Sam, pointed them down the hallway.

"Turn right at the door. Can't miss it. I'll bring more cookies."

{\\SN//}

Dean didn't have a clue who Cheryl McTierney was having known her for all of 15-minutes, but any woman who could bake had his attention. Sure, her skill with sugar, flour and eggs could just as easily be connected to some major hoodoo but Dean told himself that it was highly unlikely. Bobby had sent them to this address and as far as he knew, vampires, demons, ghosts and ghouls weren't known for offering straight-out-of-the-oven cookies to their next victim.

When she'd opened the front door, every neuron in his brain had lit up because at the same time she spoken the magical words, "baking cookies", the smell hit him. Chocolate and dough, and the dough rising in the oven and it was like he was four again, which was completely unfair but really, for one brief moment he was pretty sure if he just turned a corner he'd see his Mom baking up a storm. Because he remembered that. He remembered her letting him help with stirring and for some reason the perfume of domesticity wafting around the house seemed to have made that fuzzy memory clearer.

Dean wanted to comment about the smell and how for a change, it was a good smell and not the smell of death but then he thought that his comment would earn a look from Sam that would hint that as far as Sam was concerned, he'd lost the plot.

The living room had two huge couches, knick-knacks, a flat screen TV. A fireplace, no fire, and photos of Cheryl and the other people who were, or had been, in her life. There was also a photo of Cheryl with Bobby. It looked like it had been taken at a restaurant of all places. Bobby had his arm around her and he was smiling and he was wearing a tie and no cap. Dean surveyed the long line of framed photos that featured Cheryl with a stethoscope around her neck, surrounded by a bunch of other military personnel. Then he scoped the room out, scanning for little clues in regards to their new employer. Sam did the same, checking through the titles on her bookcase.

So far, so lacking in signs of evil. No witch like activities, hex bags, spells, or the bones of small animals strewn around.

She'd followed them in, carrying a plate of cookies, and her own cup. Noticed Dean scrutinizing the photos on the mantelpiece.

"I used to be a doctor in the Army. Retired two years ago. Keep my hand in at a free clinic I started."

She placed the the cookies on the small coffee table, gestured that they should sit down. Dean was more than happy to comply, but sitting down proved problematic. He lowered himself slowly, hunched forward and then shifted so that he'd positioned himself in front of the plate. He reached for another cookie. His hand was slapped away by his brother.

He shot a pissed off look Sam, who had started with the supervision routine shortly after Dean had made it back to the land of the living. Dean would be doing something like drinking shots back-to-back, or eating more than two slices of pie, or compulsively replaying the _Led Zeppelin II _album for three hours straight and Sam would get a pinched look on his face and say, "Enough, man. Enough." Quietly, like Dean was doing something fucked up and crazy. Annoyed and embarrassed, he put his hand down, and tried to ignore the scent of warm chocolate wafting around the room and instead, took a swig of coffee.

"Oh my God! What the hell is in this coffee? This coffee is awesome."

Cheryl smiled at him, and it was a genuine smile. He knew that because he could spot when people faked happiness. Mainly because he was so damn good at it himself.

"That," said Cheryl. "Is a blend I've been working on. I've been experimenting with buying different beans and seeing what works."

Sam, clearly getting impatient, interrupted and put the conversation back on track."Yes, it's very good. Now Dr. McTierney-"

"-Cheryl."

"Cheryl. What seems to be the exact nature of your problem?"

"Possession. I think the word you're looking for is 'possession'. I thought you said Bobby sent you."

"He did. Could I ask how you know Bobby?"

"Let's just say Bobby is quite the lady's man when he's in the mood."

Dean tried not to make a face. Images of Bobby rampaged through his mind without asking, and it was as bad as the time he figured out how sex worked and where babies came from and then promptly realized that it must have also meant that his parents had sex too.

"What's the exact nature of the possession?"

Dean wanted to tell Sam that he was sounding like an FBI agent but kept his mouth shut and tried to concentrate and not look at the cookies. The cookies that were all stacked up on the plate like they'd fallen out of a Martha Stewart magazine. The magazine that he'd occasionally sneak a peek at when they were at a convenience store or whatever, and he'd just open it up, look at all the sickeningly sweet layouts of perfect, perfect food and wonder why he never got to eat stuff that good looking.

"I'm the Earth Mother to a troop of Marigolds."

"Marigolds?" Dean thought he knew what a Marigold was in terms of enforced group activities for children but wasn't sure.

"Yes. Marigolds. Little girls in uniform gaining proficiency badges and selling cookies door-to-door. Not my fabulous cookies mind you. The prepackaged ones."

"The mint flavored ones? I ate a packet of those once."

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. Trying to signal that he should reign in his current obsession with baked goods. "You were saying?"

"Like I was saying, I'm Earth Mother to a Marigold troop. There's one girl. Emma. Whenever she's around, something happens. Items disappear and turn up in the wrong place. The other girls won't invite her to sleepovers. Apparently on one of the nights Emma turned up, the brother of the girl holding the sleepover woke up covered in fingertip bruising. The parents thought Emma might have been the culprit but they couldn't prove anything. They say that she's creepy but they're never very specific about why they're frightened of her. Of more concern is that Emma sometimes seem to be covered in the same bruises."

"Okay... You know, that doesn't mean it's supernatural," said Sam. Dean thought he sounded vaguely patronizing. Sam hastened to extend his explanation. "It could be due to human causes. She might have behavioral issues. If she was being abused, it would make sense..."

Cheryl didn't seem to take offense, but did look at Sam as if he were a slow-witted child. "Yes, I do realize that. I've also noticed temperature drops of up to ten degrees when she stays here. Bobby gave me an EMF meter a few years back and it's been showing some signs of activity. I discussed it with Bobby and he thought it was worth checking out."

"Then maybe your house is haunted."

"No. I wouldn't buy a house that was haunted. What I'm saying is that wherever Emma goes, spooky things happen."

From the way Cheryl was describing the possession, it didn't strike Dean as what he'd consider to be a 'normal' case of demon ride sharing. "Look," said Dean. "There's no such thing as a mild case of possession. If Emma was possessed everyone at the sleepover would be dead. Not slightly annoyed."

"He's got a point," said Sam.

"Well, what else is it?" Cheryl asked.

Dean wasn't sure. But facts were facts and these facts didn't add up. EMF activity and a drop in temperature meant a haunting. It could also mean a draft in the room, and faulty wiring. Bottom line, Sam was probably right. Weird kid, yes. Demons, no. Ghosts, maybe.

Cheryl took a sip of coffee, seemed to be taking their skepticism calmly. "So what's the plan?"

Despite it all, Dean's interest was piqued. At least it was something different, in that it didn't appear to be immediately life threatening, and there was no desperate urgency to kill something and he wasn't talking about a haunting while freezing his ass off in the car.

"The plan is that we go and meet this Emma kid, and figure out what's happening."

The expression on Cheryl's face was one of amused disbelief. "Have you looked in a mirror lately? Emma will get one look at you and run screaming for her mother."

Dean didn't reply even though he was insulted by the comment. He was reasonably sure the reason that they didn't get into more trouble with the general public was in a large part to their boyish good looks. And he, for one, wasn't above freely turning on the charm when it came to women. To be told they looked shifty was insulting.

Cheryl continued. "Besides, your back is bothering you."

He opened his mouth to say no, no it wasn't bothering him, but didn't get that far. She just talked straight over the top of him and he had no option but to close his mouth.

"Your gait is off, and I'd hardly call what you're doing a relaxed sitting posture."

He opened his mouth again, and he was going to lie that automatic lie. He got beaten up in a bar, he was in a car accident, he pulled a muscle at the gym, all of those thousand and one lies that didn't raise the suspicions of ordinary people. But here he was, no chance to say anything because Cheryl was still talking and he was beginning to feel like he was doing his best imitation of a fish.

"Hunters. You're all the same. Shoot first, worry about your body parts dropping off later. You boys are going to take a couple of days off, and recharge your batteries before you go galloping after the unknown. If you're going to gank demons, I would prefer you did it when you weren't sleep deprived."

_Gank_. The woman had just used the word gank. In a sentence. It was like a spelling bee for fringe dwellers. Yes, sir. Gank. G-A-N-K. Gank. At that point, Dean gave up trying to argue. He saw Sam shrug out of the corner of his eye, and that seemed to be about it. Cheryl wasn't a hunter, that much was certain, but she knew the lifestyle. She was an older version of Ellen.

"Okay," said Sam, also on unsure ground. "Great. So. Research?"

"No," interrupted Cheryl. Her tone of voice made it clear that she'd been an effective commander in her Army days. "You clearly didn't hear what I said. There are to be no hunting related activities for the next two days. At least."

There was nothing much more to say. Dean knew a command when he heard it. Didn't matter if it was from a guy or gal. It was John Winchester's marine voice coming out of a tiny woman who was probably just as tough. If not tougher.

However, it was a tone of voice that didn't sit well with Sam and never had.

"Cheryl, I don't think we should waste any time," said Sam. "We need to confirm if it's a possession and go from there. The sooner we can start researching the sooner we might have an angle on this."

Cheryl stood up, crossed her arms. "Like I said. Not now. For one, I'm paying for this gig so you can do what your employer tells you."

Dean was about to let the whole thing go when a thought dropped into his mind with a fairly large dose of suspicion attached to it. "Fucking Bobby." Dean turned to his brother, irritation all over his face. "He planned this."

"Planned what?" Sam obviously didn't have a clue what his brother was talking about.

"Planned for us to come here. Remember two months back and he told me I needed some sleep?"

"Uh. No."

"Yes, you do. He said, 'Dean, you're getting bags under your eyes.'"

"And you translated that into a plot to make us take a break by lying abut a job involving Marigolds?"

Dean gestured impatiently, "No, not the Marigold thing. The not-being-able-to-work-on-the-case-for-a-few-days-at-least thing. Because apparently, we're in need of a vacation."

{\\SN//}

Sam frowned. Still no idea what his brother was talking about. Bobby got to the point immediately. Dean either ignored him or didn't. It was a fairly straight forward transaction in terms of conversational technique and neither Bobby nor Dean were big on subtext. For Dean to think Bobby had cooked the job just to get them to take a break was paranoid, even for Dean. Besides, _Sam_ didn't need a vacation. Dean did. Needed to stop trying to save every damn person he encountered. Maybe sleep longer than three hours. Maybe not be so fucking irritating all the time.

But that's not what he said. Instead he said, "I think you're overreacting."

"I think both of you are reading more into this than there is. Like I said, I don't want Emma to be traumatized by the sight of a tall, scary man with a roughed up a face." Cheryl interrupted.

Dean bristled at the description. "I'm _not_ scary. Jesus, what is it with the scary? I'm cute. Damn it."

Cheryl didn't seem inclined to back down. "Then how about cute and intense?"

Dean seemed about to throw something else into the mix but thought better of it. "Oh, fine. Just fine. I'll let my face get less scary. But there had better be food and beer while that happens. That's all I'm saying."

She just snorted at his agreement. "I keep a well stocked fridge. Now, since I'm a doctor, let me look at you and make sure you didn't do any serious damage."

"We've only just met!" Dean was looking highly indignant.

"There's cookies in it for you."

Dean looked dubious.

"And beer."

Still dubious.

"And a bacon cheeseburger with chili curly fries followed by homemade apple pie with ice cream."

He sighed, rolled his eyes. "Okay then."

"My office is down the back. The exam will take fifteen minutes if you're lucky," said Cheryl. Reassuringly. "Sam, why don't you make yourself comfortable here for a while? Turn on the TV, help yourself to the contents of the fridge if you want."

It was like she was talking to a ten-year-old. Sam thought she was probably right when it came to Dean but wrong when it came to him. Then again, maybe when you moved into the later stages of life, everyone looked like they were ten. He nodded his agreement.

She reached over, helped Dean to his feet, even though he was trying to pull his arm away as soon as she touched him.

"Come on Hop-Along. Let's get you sorted out."

{\\SN//}


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Okay, so I'm posting a new chapter as the editing is reasonably straight forward at this point. I hope. Feel free to review. Or not, as the case may be.

{\\SN//}

Dean limped his way along the hallway with Cheryl and found himself in her office, which was just a nice way of saying her exam room because it was definitely decorated with the various implements of medical torture. She crossed to her desk, threw a stethoscope around her neck, left him standing in middle of the room.

"Okay, lift your shirt a little, I'm just going to make sure nothing is chipped, ruptured or broken."

"I kind of figured I wouldn't be walking if that was the case."

"You'd be surprised. I had a guy walk in after he fell in a fire fight. He'd broken a vertebrae in his neck."

"What happened to him?"

"Traction, that's what."

Dean gingerly lifted his shirt, and tried not to feel vulnerable in the way that this always made him feel. He wasn't big on being touched, except in limited circumstances and doctors invaded privacy in all the wrong ways.

He heard her rubbing her hands together, trying to warm her hands up. It was considerate he had to admit but then she used her hands to palpitate every bone in his spine.

"Did you fall on anything?"

"The floor. When I was twisting out of the way."

"Any pain?"

"Nope."

Then she went for the muscles in his lower back, and he jerked out of her reach. "Ow. Watch it lady."

"Tender?"

"Yes. Now stop poking me with your abnormally strong fingers."

She chuckled, and thankfully, she did stop. "Bend over and try touching your toes."

"I keep telling you that we've only just met," he snarked.

"Oh, you're a pistol aren't you? Just do as your told, Chuckles."

"_Chuckles?" _

"Don't argue."

Okay, then. He bent down, aiming for his toes. Touch his toes. He could do that. Sure he could. Only the spasm in his back pulled him up short a few inches from his goal. He was sort of stuck there, his back protesting and feeling like he was due for a nursing home. He sucked in his breath.

"Hurts?" Cheryl asked.

"Um. Yes." He tried pulling himself upright and found that the pain was just the same in reverse. "Fuuuccccck."

She helped him up the rest of the way. Patted his shoulder. "Definitely looks like some local inflammation and bruising. Although to be sure I should do an x-ray and an MRI. But I know you wouldn't go for that."

He shook his head.

"Okay, so I prefer to treat these type so injuries conservatively unless you're in extreme pain. No percocet and no vicodin."

Dean raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm not in that kind of pain."

"Glad to hear it. I'm going to give your some diclofenac for the next few days. You need to apply ice, rest and not over exert yourself. That should settle it down."

"I could have told you that."

"Well, you could have but you didn't. Besides, since I didn't hear the word, 'doctor' attached to your name, you don't have prescribing privileges. When did you last have a check-up?"

Dean backed up, put his hands up. "I have regular check-ups. Every time I wind up in hospital, I have a check-up. So it's yearly. Maybe even six monthly."

She seemed amused by his response but she also took a step back, much to his relief. Put the stethoscope down on the desk. "Fair enough." Then she went to a cabinet, unlocked it. It was stocked full of drugs.

Dean blinked, "Aren't you worried about burglaries?"

"Got an alarm. Got a gun. People know that I know how to use the gun." She pulled a box from the cupboard. "Haven't had any trouble. Come on, let's go get your brother."

{\\SN//}

When Dean and Cheryl had left the living room, Sam had done as he was told. He'd turned on the TV. He'd wandered into the kitchen and helped himself to a beer. He'd gone back to the living room, flicking between The History Channel and Discovery and drank his beer and then shortly thereafter, called Bobby.

Because he wanted to know if that's what Bobby had really been thinking sending them on a job that probably wasn't a job.

"Hey, Sam. You make it to Cheryl's okay?"

"Yeah. She seems like a nice person."

"Oh, she's that indeed." The amusement in Bobby's voice said Bobby was thinking of nice in an entirely different way to Sam.

"Dean thinks you set this whole thing up."

"Set up, _how_ exactly?"

"That you deliberately sent us here. For some kind of hunters' version of a vacation."

"There are better places to have a vacation, Sam. Like Bermuda."

"So," said Sam. He massaged the bridge of his nose while he waited for Bobby to stop dancing around the point. Because the one thing Bobby Singer had never been good at was lying to them without a good reason. Especially when it came to Dean.

"Look," continued Bobby. "Your brother and you have been through serious amounts of shit in the past few months. You were hitting the bottle hard until Dean came back. As to Dean... Well. I think we both know he could use a chance to relax. Boy is wound up so tight I swear one day his god damned head will just explode. And after that incident with the siren..."

Sam didn't reply because he couldn't think of much to say. It had been obvious who had spoken the harshest words. The younger brother, that's who. Dean said he didn't trust him. Dean was right not to trust him because he _had_ been sneaking around with Ruby and he'd been doing things. Very bad, bad things that he didn't want to admit to himself. What had Dean done? Oh yeah, found it difficult to deal with prolonged torture, then being turned into a torturer and then being lifted out of hell. What had Sam done? Pushed Dean to talk about it, nagged him to spill his guts and then turned around and told his brother that he was whining. Thanks for the understanding and sympathy. You, Sam Winchester, are an awesome fucking brother.

"You there, Sam?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Hey... Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

He took a deep breath, tried to be like the Sam of a few years back. The one that had empathy and manners and cared what people were feeling. "Look, you know Dean's no good at slowing down and I'm not great at it either. We've both been getting carried away lately. So, thanks. Thanks for watching out for us."

"Hey, kiddo, it's no problem. You take care of yourself, and take care of your brother. Call me when you figure out what the hell is going on. Personally I figure it's nothin' but if it's somethin' I also figure it's low level enough that you can deal with it and not blink."

"You know Dean's gonna go ballistic, don't you? He'll start ranting about wanting to save people and that this isn't an actual hunt."

"It's _probably_ not a hunt. That's not the same thing. I just haven't had time to confirm it one way or the other. Besides, if this Emma girl is getting hurt by a real person, you should do something about it anyways."

"He's still going to rant."

Bobby let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah. I guess he is. Hey, Sam, I gotta go. I got a steak on my George Foreman Grill that's about done."

"Really?"

"I gotta go." The line went dead.

Sam tucked the phone back into his pocket, went back to watching TV. He flipped between a documentary about Nazis and a documentary about sharks. Nazis. Sharks. Nazis. Sharks.

Dean limped back into the room with Cheryl. Sam stopped his channel grazing.

"How'd it go?"

"I pulled a muscle. Like I said," replied Dean.

Cheryl snorted at his reply. "Yeah, like the doctor said. There's some inflammation and bruising. A couple of days of rest should sort it out."

Sam took a deep breath and thought that he should update Dean on the latest developments with Bobby. Dean had already guessed anyway, but it didn't hurt to confirm facts as they stood. It was better to confront it now rather than in the middle of night. His brother had dragged them onto the road in the small hours of the morning on more than one occasion, and Sam wasn't about to pass up a decent place to stay just because his brother was having a hissy fit about the validity of a hunt.

"Hey, Dean," started Sam. "I called Bobby. Turns out you were right. He did plan this."

"What?! God damn it. This isn't even a real job is it? I am gonna kick his ass!"

Someone cleared their throat. Cheryl. Her expression said that she wasn't going to tolerate any further sass when it came to Bobby Springer. "Say what you like about him but that man has your best interests at heart. He was going to come over and check this out himself but asked me if he could send you two instead. Bobby told me that you were good people. Don't make me change my mind."

Dean crossed his arms, looked like he was about to leave anyway. Nothing made him more unhappy then when he felt manipulated and Sam had always put it down to a subconscious rejection of their father's ability to order Dean to do just-about-anything.

But there was an opportunity and Sam could see it clearly. The relationship had gone south months ago. They pretended there wasn't anything wrong while each of them nursed their resentments and hurts. Was it really so wrong if they grabbed the opportunity they were handed? Maybe if they were in one place without the usual baggage, somehow they could make it right again. At least he could _try_.

"Dude," said Sam. "I don't know the last time we just kicked back for a couple of days. It can't hurt just to take a couple of days off, heal up... You know, just... Chill."

Dean glowered at him, and Sam could sense that the suggestion of going off the clock had offended Dean's core principle. The one that said he had to save as many people as possible, even if it killed Dean in the process. Sam had always thought that it was a twisted principle because if Dean got himself killed, the saving people goal went by the wayside. In one of their many circular arguments, Dean had refused to budge from his position. Dean's other principle was that the Winchesters didn't accept charity, so he always opted for starving rather than going to a food bank. Sam didn't like it much either but he wasn't above getting a hand out when the situation was dire.

He realized they were just wordlessly staring at each other in an alpha dog smack down. He wanted to strangle his brother for being so damn obstinate and hug him until he got it into his thick head that he wasn't worthless.

"Cookie?"

Startled, both Sam and Dean blinked and turned their attentions to the woman standing between them, armed with a plate of chocolatey pecan goodness. She'd positioned the plate straight under Dean's nose.

Sam watched his brother's attention narrow into a tunnel. The hand reach up as if it was the thing possessed and then it hesitated just at the point of taking its reward. There was the flit of emotions across Dean's face as the hedonistic side temporarily asserted itself. This was the side of his brother he saw in the vicinity of diners that made buttermilk pancakes bigger than their heads, or served hamburgers by the pound.

"I won't be bribed," said Dean. But his hand made up its mind and took the cookie anyway. He bit into it, briefly closed his eyes and then continued. "And we don't take charity. Also, it's only for two days. Tops."

Cheryl smiled, nodded, and completely straight faced said, "I wouldn't dream of making you accept charity or bribing you. Even if the job is delayed, it's still a job."

So, there they were. With nothing to hunt. Or runaway from. And Sam was so relieved, he could only grin like an idiot.

Dean looked around the room, at the TV and at Sam. Sam looked at the beer bottle he was holding, the TV and Cheryl. The blue digital clock on the HD recorder said that it was three in the afternoon.

Cheryl picked up on the signs of two people washing up on unfamiliar shores.

"I guess you boys had better go and get your stuff out of the car, then I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

{\\SN//}

It turned out that they were sleeping in the house. On the second floor. Dean took the stairs slowly. Cheryl had promised to give him a diclofenac at dinner because he needed to take it with food. Apparently it could mess up a stomach lining faster than a bad diet and an office job.

The house, as it turned out, was even bigger on the inside. It may have been wide, but it was also long. It had six bedrooms in total, all still adorned with their room numbers.

"It was a guest house when I bought it," explained Cheryl. "I tossed the guests but kept some of the bedrooms. Pays to have a few spare when I get visitors."

"That's a lot of visitors," said Sam. He was curious and wondered what she meant.

"Sometimes I get my Army buddies dropping by. Sometimes its hunters. Either way, they know they've got a place for a pit stop."

She opened up one door and turned on a light. Room 2B. "I thought Dean could have this one."

Dean poked his head into the room, could only stare in stunned silence at the tableau before him. Another flat screen TV sat on a chest of drawers. The biggest bed he'd ever seen. A beer fridge. A closet. A reading chair. The wallpaper was a manly shade of beige and the bedspread was a neutral checkered pattern and there was a quilt rolled up at the end.

"The fridge is stocked. There's an en suite through here..." Cheryl continued her tour, turning on the light in the bathroom. A crisp,clean, white bathroom with no mold and fluffy towels and a full roll of toilet paper. Those individual, tiny guest soaps lined up on a glass shelf above the basin. A wall fan. A wall heater. He wondered if it was inappropriate to cry with joy, do a happy dance and maybe hug the life out of the woman. With that thought he promptly felt guilty because well, he always did when something half decent happened. Like someone, somewhere was going to yank that little bit of happiness away as soon as he started enjoying himself.

He tried to sound as appreciative as he could. "This is... This is... It's _awesome_."

"Thought you might like it," she said. And again, with that smile. Dean decided that it was a very kind smile. The sort of smile he thought of as motherly from what he remembered about mothers.

"Sam is in the opposite room. 3C. You stay here and unpack."

He nodded even though unpacking for a Winchester meant hauling out a rumpled pair of jeans and some dirty socks. He left the door open, half watched as Sam happily found himself in a room of similar proportions. He didn't know where to start. Did he lie down on the bed and watch TV? Sit in the chair and watch TV? Drink all the beer in the fridge? Shower? Do his laundry? Oh. That was a good idea. He could get his laundry done. Maybe work on the car. The air filter needed changing.

The idea of working on the car was slammed shut when he turned without any due care and his back tightened up on him again. "Shiittttttt."

Cheryl must have heard him. "That's it. I'm making you a sandwich and you can take the pills right now," she called out from the other room. "Get comfortable on the bed and I'll bring an ice pack too."

"Hear that, Dean? Get comfortable on the _bed_." His little brother's voice echoed through the hall and it briefly felt like they were teenagers again.

"Don't be a dick, Sam," he shouted back.

"I'm in agreement," floated Cheryl's voice. "Don't be a dick. I'll be back in a minute."

He heard her leaving, her shoes smacking against the floorboards. Sam joined him about twenty seconds later.

"This place is, uh, pimped out," said Sam.

Dean laughed. "Pimped out? Those are the only words you can think of?"

"The only word you can ever think of is 'awesome'."

"You forgot the word, 'bitch' - bitch".

"Jerk."

There was silence again for a few seconds. He felt like they'd fallen down the rabbit hole just because they were in a place that didn't suck.

"What should we do now?" Sam asked.

"Apparently I'm lying down. On the bed. But you - you could do the laundry and wash my car."

"I'm not your maid. Do your own laundry. Wash your own car."

Dean put his hand on his back with a flourish, grimaced. "Can't. Bad back. Killing me. Pain. Such pain. I may be this way for days. Days and days."

Sam smiled and gave him a punch on the arm. A soft punch that didn't really make much of a dent. It occurred to Dean that he never really saw Sam smile much anymore. His brother seemed to be relenting.

"Okay, I'll do the laundry. Mainly because the thought of you wandering around in three-day old underwear is stomach churning. I draw the line at washing your car."

"You know, you can't treat my baby like that. She needs care and attention, like a racing horse."

"It's a car."

"A car that has needs."

At that moment his little brother just looked at him with an unfathomable expression, sort of half amused and half heartbroken as if Dean saying that his car had needs was like admitting that somehow _he_ didn't.

"Dean... About that stuff I said when we were under the influence of the siren..."

"Oh God, you're not going to be a girl again are you? I hate it when you girl-out on me."

Sam paused, held his hands up in a gesture of peace. "No. Okay. No, girling-out. Give me your damn laundry and I'll go and ask Cheryl where the washing machine is."

Dean shoved the duffel at him, which meant that nearly all of his clothes were in need of exposure to Tide. Sam smiled at him again, wandered off.

So. Here he was again. Alone in this room. It was late afternoon. He was faced with a perplexing puzzle. What did people do to relax?

{\\SN//}

Sam stuffed clothes into the washing machine. Cheryl had gone upstairs to stuff Dean with medication and a sandwich.

He wondered what he should do while he waited for the load to complete. There were books in the living room. A whole shelf of non-fiction and fiction and he hadn't read for the pleasure of it in months, possibly years. It was a nice day out too. Cold, but with clear blue skies and the sun was offering a pinch of warmth. He could just go outside, go for a walk. Sit on the porch and read.

While he pondered his options he also felt something else. A skittering through his veins. A slow crawl under his skin. Brief and over before he'd had a chance to react. It reminded him that he was probably a long way from Ruby.

He clamped down on that thought. He was here. In South Dakota. He was fine. He was in control. He didn't need or want what Ruby had to offer. But just to be safe, he also had a hip flask containing some donations from Ruby and the last demon they killed together without Dean's help. The contents of the hip flask were for emergencies because it never paid to be too careful. If he were to have a little taste it wouldn't be because he needed it, it would be because he needed to make sure he could defend both of them.

It was perfectly reasonable. Logical. He was just looking out for his brother, because his brother needed the help and Sam had years of guilt to take care of. For small things, like eating the last bowl of Lucky Charms, and for big things like letting his brother go to hell.

"You okay?"

He didn't realize he'd just been standing there, watching the laundry through the door of the machine like it was a new show on TV. Cheryl was standing in the doorway, clutching an empty plate.

"How's Dean?"

"He's asleep. Ate the sandwich, took the pills, conked out shortly thereafter."

Sam was relieved. "Good. He needs to get some rest."

"Yeah, he told me he hadn't been sleeping much lately."

"Wait," said Sam, taken aback. Dean didn't admit anything to anyone. His arm could be falling off and he would argue that people were overreacting. "Dean _told_ you he wasn't sleeping?"

"Sure. Why?"

"He's not big on heart-to-hearts."

"Admitting you're tired is not a heart-to-heart."

"You don't know my brother."

She gave him a strange look. "Actually, I know your brother better than you think."

She didn't bother to wait for the next part of the conversation, just bustled out and down the hallway to the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder. "I'm going to pack these cookies away and then start dinner. Feel free to help out."

{\\SN//}

Dean jerked awake, sat bolt right up in bed, a muffled half cry escaping from his mouth. Images faded from his mind but the sounds did not. Begging. Him, begging. Pleading. Wanting it to stop and no one ever took any notice. Someone else pleading. Asking _him_ to stop. Alastair, always there, egging him on. That fucking voice... It was all jumbled up in a fuzzy picture of red, and fire and slaughterhouses with people on hooks instead of cows. Except cows were lucky because they got a dead-bolt in the back of the head before someone carved them up into consumer sized pieces.

There was still some light in the room. Fading light that signaled dusk. That was a relief because he could make out where he was, didn't have to panic because it was dark and he thought he'd been buried again or he was on the rack, his eyes gone and blind - didn't have to try and control his breathing so he didn't wake Sam up. Didn't have to sneak off into the bathroom as quietly as he could, so he could sit on the bathroom floor and shake from a combination of adrenaline and exhaustion. Didn't have to breath through the nausea.

Someone had closed the door to the room. He was grateful for that. His sudden move from sleep to waking was hidden from the prying eyes of brotherly concern and these days, brotherly contempt.

At least his back was okay. Yeah, it seemed the pills from Cheryl and the food had worked wonders.

He swung him legs over the edge of the bed, got up. Switched on the light next to his bed. Found his laundry neatly stacked in the reading chair and realized just how much he'd zoned out.

His eyes surveyed the stack until he found was he was looking for. Fresh socks. His current pair reeked like curdled milk, so he stripped them off and put on the clean pair. Wriggled his toes. There was something about socks, especially new socks, that Dean really liked. Maybe it was all of those nights of staking out houses and appreciating that with good, thick socks, his toes were always warm.

Yeah, Dean Winchester was a guy of simple pleasures because those were the only pleasures he knew. With that, he didn't bother to put on his boots, just padded out the door and downstairs.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl was a mean cook. She was making chili and the sauce was being assembled from scratch. Sam had been assigned to chopping up the garlic and onions in a food processor. Even with the lid on, he could feel his eyes watering.

Dean walked into the kitchen, just socks on his feet, found the sight of Sam cooking while tearing up to be highly amusing.

"Aw, Sammy. What's the matter? Have you been reading your collection of Harlequin romances again?"

"Shut up. I'm helping out with dinner."

Cheryl looked up from pulping cooked tomatoes with a potato masher. "Don't stand there, go to the fridge. I've got Pillsbury Crescents in there. There's a baking sheet on top of the oven and a sheet for rolling it out on the bench. How's the back?"

"Good. I thought I was getting a cheeseburger?"

"I lied. I decided you should eat something with slightly more nutritional value."

"Nutrition is overrated," he said as he crossed to the fridge. He opened the fridge, found the can, had no idea what to do next. He read the instructions on the back. Interesting. This was something none of the Winchester men had actually encountered except as a commercial on TV. "Uh, what do I do with this?"

"Open the can, unroll the sheet. Cut along the dotted line. Fold."

"It's like origami for dough," said Sam. Smirking.

"Like you know how to do this."

"I used to watch Jess."

He couldn't miss that it was probably the first time in three years he'd heard Sam mention her name. "Okay then, you do it."

"It's rolling up pieces of dough. It's less complicated than replacing spark plugs," said Cheryl. Her tone of voice was creeping back into military commander.

On instinct Dean shut up, got the baking sheet, took the top off the can and did as he was told. He spotted a kitchen block containing knives on a bench, grabbed one, carefully cut out a triangle. Experimented with folding it up but when he'd finished it didn't look like the picture on the can. More like a ball. He tried another one and got a bow tie. Then he tried another one, got a sort of roll like figure, which was better, so he put that on the baking sheet. The next one fell apart and the next one he dropped on the floor.

"I think I need another can," he announced. Feeling strangely humiliated for failing at this basic task.

"I got some spares in the fridge." She didn't stop stirring.

"I'm actually a good cook," he said, feeling as if he had to justify himself.

"If it happens to be out of can," shot back Sam. It was meant to be a joke, but it didn't feel like it.

"Yeah, well, the fact that I could heat a can spaghettios when I was eight saved your whiny little ass from going hungry." It was meant to be a light hearted dig, but for some reason it came out wrong. It sounded bitter. Bitter and hurt.

Sam didn't immediately reply. Opened his mouth, then closed it, then opted for not replying at all. There was just silence and Sam had that pinched expression on his face that said he was counting to ten. Or possibly one hundred.

With that, Dean felt himself losing it again. Sam's lack of response was just as bad as if his brother had said something. The silence felt like an accusation but he could never understand what he was being accused of. In response, he did what he always did of late.

"I'm going outside." He spun on a heel and marched to the back door.

"Dean!" Sam was calling after him and he just didn't care.

{\\SN//}

Dean was heading for the back door dressed in his socks, jeans and a t-shirt. The temperature outside was dropping rapidly. Sam called out for Dean to come back for that fact alone. Just that it was cold, and Dean was being an ass for heading outside but it was too late. The door was opened and slammed shut before he'd had a chance to say anything but his brother's name.

He sighed. Crossed his arms. Knew that his next act would be to excuse himself and fetch Dean's jacket and shoes and go outside and try to convince Dean to either come back inside or at least dress for the weather. There would be more arguing before Dean relented. Still, there was another person in the room so a lame explanation concerning the latest meltdown was in order.

"Sorry," he said. Then shrugged, attempted to brush it to one side like it was no big deal. "It's been a long day."

"Not really," said Cheryl, frowning at him. "How often is he like this?"

Lying. It was so automatic now. The lies rolled smoothly off his tongue so that no one would suspect, and more importantly no one would get angry, or upset. Lying, it turned out, was like English composition. Just had to setup the plot line and make sure it paid off correctly.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "His back is probably playing up."

"Look, I get it. You're hunters. You're so far on the outside of the circle, the circle looks like a dot. You have to lie because no way are the normals going to understand. But I _know_ Bobby. Okay? I know what shit is out there and I know what you guys hunt. So quit bullshitting me and tell me the truth."

He can't argue with that, or bluff his way past her. He'd only been in her home for a few short hours, but he knew she wasn't stupid, and she appeared to be on their side. After a life time of pursuing evil, Sam and Dean were excellent at reading people. Sam decided that he could trust her. Maybe not with all of it, but enough to help make sense of it.

But first he needed to figure out the ground rules. "How much did Bobby tell you?"

"That your brother made a deal, got dragged down to hell and then rescued by an angel. That your brother hasn't been the same since. That you took your brother's death hard. Very hard."

"Oh," he breathed out. Bobby wasn't usually much of a talker. If he'd told her that much it meant that Bobby did, genuinely, like this woman. More importantly, he knew she wouldn't spill their secrets.

She continued. "Was he telling the truth?"

"Yeah. That's it in a nutshell."

Cheryl shifted her focus towards the door. "I think it would be better if I was the one who checked on your brother. I'm a neutral party – if you went out I don't think he'd be responsive."

"Yeah," he said in agreement because it was strangely comforting to have someone around who seemed to get the whole mess. Someone they didn't need to lie to, and someone who wasn't bound to them because they were two degrees removed from John Winchester.

She surveyed the kitchen. "I'm leaving you in command. I trust you'll follow the recipe to the letter?"

He gave her a mock salute to lighten the tension. "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled at him, gave him a light pat on the back. "We'll talk later, if you want to."

And he did. He'd wanted to talk to someone for so long, someone sympathetic, someone who wouldn't judge, and would let him spill his guts. Wouldn't talk to him about being different, whether that difference was his hunter life style,or his demon blood, or his scholarship to Stanford. Sam was always different, always felt like he was a label. The Smart One. The Guy with Visions. The Guy who might go Darkside. Even Ruby, he suspected, saw him as a label. The Guy who can Exorcise Demons with his Mind. He didn't want to be the one that people worried over, or had to keep watching just in case he went rogue.

He just wanted, for once, to be the one doing the worrying and the protecting. To watch out for Dean and make sure nothing bad happened to him ever again. He'd do whatever that took, even if it meant he had to be a hard-ass. Even if his brother ended up hating him.

{\\SN//}

It was fucking freezing and he was sitting on the steps, the cold wooden boards sucking the heat out of his body, his arms covered in goose pimples, his backside going numb, his toes even number but he was damned if he was going inside just yet. He had a hip flash tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt and he figured he would warm himself up with the help of Mr. Daniels.

He was onto his fifth generous swig from the flask when he heard the door open behind him. He quickly pocketed the whiskey and began preparing himself to get worked up and tell Sam to fuck off as soon as his little brother started lecturing him.

"I thought you could use a coat and your shoes."

Not Sam. Cheryl. He didn't bother to look up, just crossed his arms and stuck his hands under his armpits.

"I'll be inside in a minute." He was lying. He'd go back into the house after he'd finished chewing on the bottom of his lip and trying to fathom why he kept going outside whenever he and Sammy were inside a room for longer than a couple of hours.

"Don't have any particular issues with you being inside or outside. You're an adult, it's your choice. But I really don't want to have to treat you for hypothermia tonight. Call me selfish, but I like my beauty sleep."

She put the coat across his knees and almost instantly, there was a small circle of heat in his joints and muscles. His common sense, and his body, demanded that he did as she asked. He picked up the coat, realized it was military issue which meant it was padded and designed to let you stand around outside with a gun for days on end. He shrugged into it. Surprisingly it was a roomy fit. Whoever owned it was one gigantic man and his brain tried to imagine someone even taller and broader than Sam but all his brain could come up with was a bigger version of Sasquatch. He flipped up the hood for good measure and his body hummed its thanks as his skin warmed up. He put on the boots, his toes grateful for the respite, then stuck his hands into the pockets.

"All set," he said for something to say.

"Good," she said. "You look less like you're going to turn into a man sized ice cube. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

She got back to her feet, prepared to leave him alone. No arguing, no convincing. She'd stated the facts, and that seemed to be all she was going to do. It unnerved him a little. He'd always been around people that tended to hound him when they wanted their own way. Cheryl, it seemed, had no agenda at all.

"You don't want me inside right now?" He tried to sound like he was just double-checking but it came out stamped with the subtext of rejection. Like she'd somehow rejected him and he was kind of wounded by it even though she was still a stranger.

Cheryl stopped, changed her mind and sat back down beside him.

"I would love to have you back in the house, but right now, it seems you don't want to be there. And that's fine. I don't have any problems with it."

He sighed, didn't know what to make of being offered a choice. He tried jamming his hands even further down in the pockets and he felt some lint in there and a few long hardened crumbs of candy bar.

"Sorry," said Dean. "I'm don't know why I'm like this. I guess I'm just... tired."

"Don't apologize. There's nothing to be sorry for."

"Okay."

He leaned forward some more to stare at the top of his boots. That feeling was back, the one that made him feel like he was drowning. Floating around, tossed by waves, his hand up, thrashing around, waiting for rescue while surrounded by boats and people and they couldn't see him – kept ignoring him.

"See you soon," she said and stood up. Brushed at her jeans, headed inside. The door shut quietly and he was alone, his breath misting in the night air.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl served dinner around six. Early for most people but as Sam and Dean didn't stick to regular meal times, any time seemed appropriate. It had been an hour since Dean had walked out the door and Sam was worried but Cheryl never mentioned Dean. She kept Sam busy. Finishing the cooking, baking the rolls, putting a pie into the oven to start heating, setting the table. She made him get one of Dean's sweatshirts and put it over the back of a chair. It was what normal people did and he hadn't done normal in a while.

He was finally seated, the food on the table, his plate empty, waiting, wondering what the next step was. Cheryl had gone to the back door again, opened it softly. He heard her talking to Dean, didn't hear a reply.

There was movement, the sound of someone walking on the porch and then Dean appeared, looking contrite and hesitant. He glanced briefly at Sam before shrugging off the coat, and seating himself at the table.

"Sam..." Dean started, then stopped. Didn't seem to know what else he should say.

"Hey, it's okay. It was a stupid joke."

Dean nodded at the sort-of-apology and seemed to snap out of whatever funk he was in. "Yeah, you can say that again."

The meal started with an underscore of tension that eventually faded. Sam noted that Dean was on his best table behavior, carefully using a spoon in a way that didn't flick the chili all over the table cloth. He'd even taken the time to put a napkin over his lap, which had to be a first. For Sam, it was a relief that Cheryl wasn't going to have to watch them recreate the feeding habits of ravening wolves. They'd managed to get a little feral when it came to their dinner habits and it sometimes seemed the civilizing influences of Jess and his life at Stanford had long since departed. The rest of meal was taken up with neutral and vaguely amusing conversations about less gory hunts punctuated by Dean waxing lyrical about the chili, the rolls and the pie. Especially the pie. Sam didn't push it, just let Dean do what Dean did best - gloss over pain in sweeping gestures of glibness before he came back around to what resembled semi-normal behavior.

He couldn't help but notice that every so often Cheryl would look at them both in a way that said she was studying them, observing their interaction in a clinical way. Chewing something over, apart from the meal. Sam wanted to ask, but decided against it because he was pretty sure that he didn't want to know.

At the end of the meal, she gave Dean another diclofenac, saying the double dose wouldn't hurt.

The rest of the evening was spent slouched in front of the TV. Sam wanted to watch Discovery but Dean assumed command of the remote and it was ESPN the rest of the night. But at least it was soccer. Sam liked soccer.

{\\SN//}


	3. Chapter 3

{\\SN//}

Dean mindlessly channel hopped and debated about going to bed. He was tired. Tired all of the time, and this odd version of a vacation was doing nothing for the fog that hugged his skin and his brain. He remained good on a hunt because he could be half dead and still kick demon ass. Take away the hunt component and he was sleep walking through the day.

Sam had watched Man U. vs Some-Other-Team and spent hours riveted by guys running up and down a field kicking a ball. Dean wasn't much interested but he thought letting Sam watch soccer was like an apology without actually having to open his mouth. Sam had given up around eleven, stumbling off to his room. Cheryl had thrust a small bag of rock salt at him.

"Just don't fuck up the rugs," she'd said to him.

Dean remained awake, aimlessly stabbing the remote and watching the channels circulate, never stopping on any one show or topic for longer than five minutes.

He was hoping Cheryl would excuse herself too but she hung around, pretending to read a book but every so often glancing up at him.

At one in the morning, still channel surfing, his left leg jiggling up and down with nervous energy, he decided he couldn't stand it any longer.

"_What_?"

She raised an eyebrow at his tone but didn't react any more than that.

"How bad is the drinking and how bad are the flashbacks and nightmares?" Her voice was calm and soft when she said it.

The question was so blunt, but so reasonably asked that his mouth opened and closed and nothing immediately came out. She kept putting him on the back foot.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine. It's just been an intense couple of months."

"You keep telling me you're fine but my professional opinion says otherwise."

He felt himself suddenly, and unexpectedly resenting this woman. This woman who had suckered them into her home on the pretense of a job, and was letting them live here and didn't seem to want anything in return but Dean knew, just _knew,_ that this wasn't how it would play out. Everybody wanted something. That's how people worked. It wasn't about kindness for the sake of kindness but about getting favors and sometimes having to repay them. It was about taking everything you could and then some. Dean knew this because he'd been the one doing the giving his entire life.

"I'm not having any and it's none of your fucking business." He winced as soon as he said it. He'd said too much and there was that anger again. Random and uncontrolled and aimed at inappropriate targets.

She seemed unaffected by his response. "Look, it's okay. I'm not here to make your life any harder than it is. I've just noticed a few things since you arrived, things other people probably don't see."

He crossed his arms in front of him, defensive. But he had to ask anyway. "Like what?"

"You were hitting the alcohol hard on the porch. No one's going to miss that. The rest of it – the emotional volatility, the anxiety, that's all classic stuff. The smiling when you're forcing yourself to try and act like everything is normal. That's a dead giveaway. Your smile is empty."

For some reason he had to know, had to ask, even though he was fighting himself about hearing the answer. He hated this woman and at the same time it seemed like she understood something about who Dean Winchester had become. Something that not even the angels seemed to get.

"Dead giveaway, huh. For what?" Dean said.

"Post traumatic stress disorder."

At her very solemn reply, Dean burst out laughing. It was a false, harsh laugh. The type used to display contempt. "What the fuck are you talking about? PTSD is for guys who've seen combat. I haven't seen any fucking combat."

"Or for people that experienced traumatic events. I imagine that both you and Sam have seen your fair share of trauma. On top of that, you went to hell, Dean. I don't imagine it was like a trip to a theme park. Despite your miraculous return I imagine you feel like you've been set adrift. "

He wanted to tell her where to stick her theory, but again, nothing came out.

She continued. "You forget who you're talking to . A veteran of the Army. A doctor in the Army. Serving in active combat arenas. I've seen my own fair share of shit and to put it bluntly: takes one to know one."

He blinked owlishly at her, feeling like he was running up and down his defenses, desperately trying to plug the leaks with his fingers and failing miserably. This wasn't the time to go to pieces he chanted silently to himself. _Now is not the time to go to pieces._

Out of nowhere, his stupid mouth betrayed him. "People keep telling me to stop whining about it. So..." He stopped, shrugged, at a loss. "I don't."

"And by people, you mean...?"

"Just... people."

"Sam?"

Suddenly he clammed up. He couldn't talk if he wanted to. He just nodded, wished he could stop his insides spilling out when he knew better than to give away information that could be used against him.

"Bobby?" Dean shook his head. Hadn't heard it from Bobby yet. But then Bobby didn't know as much as Sam did.

"Who else?"

Dean shrugged again. "Castiel."

"The angel who saved you?" Cheryl seemed confused by his confession. "The angel told you to stop whining?"

"Not so much him, although he did threaten to put me back in hell. It was his boss. Zachariah. He said I needed to get over myself."

The news seemed to undo Cheryl. "Why would an angel tell you this? Aren't they supposed to protect humanity? To encourage us, to be there for us?"

"I haven't quite figured that part out, "replied Dean. "So far they've been douche bags all the way. So. No. I don't think they're here to provide hugs and warm fuzzies."

She shook her head. "Jesus H. fucking Christ on a stick." Then she got out of her seat. Paced around the room. "To think I gave up twenty smokes a day and a drinking habit on the basis of being redeemed in the eyes of God."

"Aw, crap," said Dean. He was pretty sure he was going to get an angel reaming for destroying someone's faith. "Just ignore me. I don't know what I'm talking about."

"Of course you do. You came back from hell. You see angels. Of course you know what you're talking about." She seemed to be considering something. "I seriously have an urge to grab a cigarette."

Dean shook his head. "You're not going to make me any more popular with the angels if you break your promise."

She seemed startled by his wording. Stopped pacing for a moment. "You have a good point," she said. Then sat down again, considered him again. "So."

"So?"

"What do we do now, Dean Winchester?"

"I don't know what you're planning but I'm going to bed."

"You need anything to help you sleep?"

"Like what?" He was curious even though he was telling himself he was going to refuse whatever she offered.

"For a start something that isn't alcohol. I'm thinking prazosin. It's a blood pressure medication but they've been getting good results in the reduction of PTSD and nightmare disorder symptoms."

"Reduction? Like... how?"

"Less sleep disturbances, less nightmares. It reduces the amount of adrenaline in the system. Seems to help."

So, there they were. Well, there _he_ was. Sitting in this innocuous living room with a woman he'd known for less than a day, teetering on the brink of something he wasn't sure about. His Dad's voice - the internal monologue that constantly berated him – reared up and told him that whatever he was about to do was a sign of weakness. It was family business, family secrets and you did not tell anyone about Winchester business. _Ever_.

That voice, the litany of rules in his head that defined what a man was supposed to be, had never let him rest. He'd written the chance of a peaceful life off long ago, along with himself. He'd replaced despair with self worth gained from saving others. But even that had a tendency to backfire. That one thing, the need to save others, had landed him where he was. Feeling as if he couldn't stand upright on the constantly shifting ground of a life he just didn't understand any more. There seemed to one small semi-rational part of himself that said she was a doctor and one little pill had to be better than drinking his way into oblivion on the nights he was desperate for sleep.

"It's not addictive or anything is it?"

"No," she replied. "That's the beauty of it and most people tolerate it fairly well but it can have side effects. We'll monitor."

Dean shook his head. "I don't want an entire prescription. Just one. I'll take one. Just for tonight."

"One it is. But you may not get much effect. The recommendation is to start on a lower dose for two to three days."

"Whatever. I'll try one and see."

It said something about Dean's twisted view of the world that the simple act of admitting to needing help for one lousy night made him want to go and gank some ghosts to prove he was still a man.

{\\SN//}

Sometimes, at night, it got lonely. A fact that Bobby Singer more than understood. Which is why she called him at two in the morning and knew that he wouldn't mind. Had never minded as far as she was concerned.

"Day or night," he told her. "I'll always be there for you."

The voice on the end was groggy but friendly because he knew it was her. "Hey. How's my girl?"

She was in her bed, having managed to get Dean to take the prazosin and settle down for the night. She rubbed her forehead, wondered if there as a diplomatic way of starting the conversation and decided there wasn't.

"What'd you send me, Bobby?"

"Huh. I take it things aren't going as well as they might?"

"Actually, it seems to be going reasonably okay but … Shit, Bobby. Thanks for sending me the lost boys."

"What? You think they're vampires?" Bobby sounded startled.

"No. The lost boys from Peter Pan, you idjit." She made sure she said idiot like Bobby would say it.

Bobby burst out laughing. "Don't let them hear you say that."

"Never dream of it. But seriously Bobby, they've got issues out the wazoo. There's a soul deep unhappiness in both of them."

"They're hunters. No surprises there, darlin'."

"Bobby, I understand you're worried, but they need more than I can give them in a few days."

"Yeah, but it's something. Somethin' is better than nothing. With the job they have to do, the responsibilities coming down the line – they might not get another chance."

She paused a minute, listened to the far away sounds of barking dogs and cars five blocks over.

"For you, I'd do anything."

Bobby paused a moment before speaking again. He sounded slightly nervous. "You didn't tell them what you did in the Army, did you?"

"That I was a psychiatrist for ten years? Good Lord, no."

"So what'd you tell 'em?"

"That I was a doctor. If I told them I had a background in psychiatry, Dean would be out the door so fast, I'd get whiplash watching him leave."

"He does get a might spooked by all of that head stuff."

"I take it, Bobby Singer, that you're also nervous that they might find out that _you_ happen to be intimate with a psychiatrist."

"Don't psychoanalyze me, woman."

"I was asking a question."

"Okay, yes. They're going to wonder. Because they think I'm a tough old coot who can handle his own problems."

"Having seen only a fraction of what you've seen, I'm surprised any hunter even makes it past their thirties. As to the general sanity level... Well, if a psychiatrist has a patient talking about killing demons and seeing angels, they generally opt for hospitalizing them. But me, I look them in the eye and think, 'you poor bastard'. "

"So, you're going to do what you can. Right?"

She shifted the cellphone to her other hand. "Of course. Just don't expect miracles."

"Never do. The world ain't a place of miracles. Lucky coincidence, yes. Miracles? No."

"You don't think Dean being lifted from hell was a miracle?"

"Actually, I think it was part of some plan. Saving Dean wasn't the point. They'd have left him there for eternity if something hadn't gone wrong. Nope, no miracle. I suspect Dean thinks that he'll get sent back there as soon as the gig is over."

She shook her head. "Fuck, Bobby. You know, I used to have such a generous view of God and angels and Heaven before I started talking to Dean."

"You should take more notice of the Old Testament. It's a war. We just happen to be civilians caught in the war zone."

"I feel so much happier."

He chuckled again. "Glad to help."

"You coming over?"

"Not yet. Maybe after the job is finished. Gotta give those boys some room to maneuverer."

"You need to say that with less merriment in your voice."

He laughed again. "Well, I gotta get my beauty sleep. Call me if they give you any trouble, Wendy."

"Shut the fuck up. Wendy was a Victorian bubble-head who dreamed of marriage and keeping house."

"But she was as cute as a button. What are you wearing?"

"A pair of sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt."

"Sexy."

"Shut up, old man. I'm going to sleep."

"Night, princess."

"Night, Bobby."

She hit the End button and curled up in her bed, a soft smile on her face.

{\\SN//}

_Dean, you are such a fucking disappointment._

His father was towering over him, angry and upset. Again.

_I've told you time and time again that you're supposed to look after Sammy. You're the eldest. You've got to be responsible. _

He couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. Sammy had finished his homework, been fed, had his bath and was in bed at the right time. Dean had put down salt lines, made sure the motel room door was locked. Sat with the shotgun, ready for trouble if Dad didn't get back in time.

He asked his father what was wrong.

_I shouldn't have to tell you. _

Oh, so he had to guess. It was like a double punishment. Get blamed and have to guess what you were being blamed for.

His father yanked him by his arm, dragging him into Sam's bedroom.

Sam, the adult Sam, was lying in bed, gutted like a fish, blood everywhere. Over the bedspread, up the walls. Every. Damn. Where.

Alistair stepped back from the body, grinned the grin of a sociopath. "See what happens when you don't keep an eye on things, Deano? Sam just gets himself into a whole load of trouble."

There was another tug on his sleeve and then John Winchester was gripping Dean's jacket in both hands, shaking him hard.

_You did this! You killed him, Dean. It's your fault._

"No. No, it's not." He tried to say it out loud but he didn't think he made any sound. "Sam is a grown-up. He makes his own choices. I can't make him do what he doesn't want to. He's stubborn. You know that, Dad."

It was the wrong thing to say. His father pushed him backwards, revulsion written on his face. John Winchester turned, went to the corpse of Sam, knelt down by the bed. Cried.

_Sammy. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you here with Dean. He's not strong enough to protect you._

Dean was backed up against the wall, relegated to an observer, a family outsider. That was the way it always seemed to be when the chips were down.

Alistair put a hand on John's head. Looked directly at Dean. "I'm so sorry for your loss, John. It must be terrible having the wrong son survive."

Dean felt his vision blurring and he had nowhere to run and -

- Dean woke up, sat bolt right up in bed, his brain telling him just one important thing.

_Sam was dead. Dean killed him and Dean was going straight back to hell._

He was alone. Alone and Sam was dead. It was his fault. It always was. He was in that damn pine box and... No, wait, that wasn't right. He knew where he was. Cheryl McTierney's house. There was nothing untoward here. A decent room. Maybe a hunt. It was fine. He was fine.

Well, that was a new one. The nightmares were generally predictable. Hell and variations thereof. This one was - odd. Still scary, still awful but not with the same intensity. That made him pause. It had still been a nightmare but it didn't send him into a panic attack or into the bathroom to throw up. He was shaking and tense but compared to what he normally went through, he would have to consider it one of his milder ones.

Cheryl had made him take something. Prazosin. Yeah, that was the name. His brain mulled over – for him – an upturn in luck. He vaguely wondered if it wasn't something to do with the placebo effect. He'd read about it on the Web when he'd been doing research, so he kind of knew that he could be reacting like this because he believed her.

Still, he wasn't about to argue the point.

He lay back down, got himself comfortable and for the first time in months, went back to sleep.

{\\SN//}

Sam took his sweet time getting out of bed and getting into a shower. It was a relief to wake up alone. When they were kids, he'd relied on Dean's presence. The older brother. Someone that would protect him and always keep him safe. Even when Dad was gone for days at a time Dean would take care of them. Make sure that little Sammy was fed, clean, entertained. Tried to help with homework, mend clothes, read stories. Tried to keep the realities of evil away from Sam for as long as possible.

Having Dean Winchester in the same room was no longer a comfort. It was a reminder of everything that had gone before. Of not being able to save Dean when Dean really needed him the most. The guilt gnawed at Sam and to add to Sam's confusion he found himself irritated. Irritated by Dean needing help. This version of Dean had problems and drank too much and couldn't sleep for eight hours straight and Sam was sick of having to constantly monitor him. Having to avoid hunts that he felt would bounce Dean into some hell bound flashback.

Sam wondered if this was what Dean felt like in his teenage years, always the responsible one, having to take care of Sam. Sam was discovering that being responsible for protecting Dean was hard work, and it terrified him despite his determination to make everything okay again.

That's why he'd continued hunting with Ruby after Dean got back. Because somewhere along the way Sam realized he didn't need his brother to be there with him. He was strong, strong enough to tackle most demons and if a hunt were going to terrify his brother into drinking heavily then Sam didn't want his brother to be a part of it. Sam could take care of this himself. He could take care of Lilith.

Lilith – the hell spawned bitch responsible for changing Dean. She was the reason everything was wrong and if nothing else, Sam was going to ensure that she was utterly destroyed. And when Dean was able to see what he'd done, Dean would be proud of him.

That one ambition, more than anything, seemed to mix inside of him to breed something dark and twisted. Something that wanted out. _Wanted out, bad._

He shook off those morbid thoughts and went down to make himself breakfast. Found it already made, and waiting to be served. Cheryl again.

She snagged him a couple of slices of bacon, toast and scrambled eggs. It was good, but other thoughts began to nag at him.

"Where's Dean?"

She glanced back in the general direction of the stairs. "Still asleep at a guess."

Sam glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after nine. The new, less-than-whole Dean didn't sleep much past six these days. "I'd better go and check on him. Make sure he's okay."

Cheryl shook her head. "Let him sleep."

She upended some scrabbled eggs from the frying pan onto her plate and came over to sit next to him.

"So, Sam Winchester. How are you?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, slightly alarmed at her straight forward conversation starter.

"I'm okay. By the way, thanks for breakfast. It makes a change to eating in a diner."

"My pleasure. I like cooking, so it's a good excuse to crack out the extra dishes when I have company."

He ate the rest of the meal in silence, entirely unsure what to say to her. He put the last morsel of egg in his mouth and politely placed his knife and fork on the plate, nestled next to each other, as taught by Jess. The woman had definitely played an active role in civilizing him.

"Well," he continued. "It was great."

She eyed him over again, in that disconcerting way that she did and said, "I think I promised that we could talk at some stage. It's out of the blue, but it's probably as good a time as any. Especially as your brother is still out for the count."

Last night, it had seemed like a good idea. In the morning, not so much. He wondered where last night's desperation came from. Presumably it was from that tiny half-forgotten part of him that longed for a mother.

"There's nothing much to say," said Sam. Trying to keep his voice light, like his life didn't feel like it was falling apart.

"Of course there's nothing much to say if you're determined to keep your secrets."

"I don't know what you mean." He tried to sound puzzled, as opposed to alarmed.

"Well, I could be wrong. But I do get a sense of these things."

"You're psychic?"

"No, I'm pushing sixty. Tends to make a person pretty good at picking up when people are covering something up. Comes with the territory. Sort of like when parents know their kids are being naughty even if the kids are in another room."

"I don't think it's any of your business," he said. Then winced because for some reason what had started out as an attempt to steer the conversation politely away from the topic had come out wrong.

She regarded him with a look that said she knew a lying liar when she met one and then patted the back of his arm. "Maybe not. Sometimes I can't help help sticking my nose into other people's business. But in all seriousness, watching a loved one suffer can be a terrible burden."

Okay. Yes. A conversation that was about Dean and Dean's general state of fucked-up-ness. That, he could deal with.

"I don't know what to do. He wakes up and... The first couple of times, he didn't know where he was. He was freaked out, I was freaking out because he was freaked out. It's been getting worse, not better."

Cheryl nodded, her expression neutral. "What do you do?"

He shrugged. How, exactly, did he answer that particular question without sounding like an asshole?

"He hates it when I try to help him. I pretend not to notice. Usually, I'll leave a light on at night. Seems to help, and he doesn't mention it, so I presume it doesn't piss him off."

"Sounds like its been tough," she said.

"I know it's wrong for me to complain. I do. I just... I never get a decent night's sleep. I'm always waking up, double-checking on Dean. It just annoys me that I'm trying to help him out, trying to take care of this whole thing and he just keeps pushing me away."

"It happens. It's hard to admit to needing help. It's hard to admit a weakness if you're not used to being weak. Your brother strikes me as someone who views weakness as a serious character defect."

Sam chuckled at that statement. "Weakness is fine for other people. Not him."

"Do you think your brother isn't as strong as he used to be?"

Sam found himself nodding at that statement. "I think he's broken. I think he won't admit it. I think I'm sick of him pretending. I think I regret making him tell me about hell."

She patted his arm again. "Kiddo, it's nothing unusual. Caring person tries to help out. Caring person learns of terrible experience and somehow in the confusion, starts to really hate the victim. It's a defensive mechanism thing. Not sure why it happens – maybe it's because you're feeling guilty and every time you see Dean, you're reminded of the guilt. It's easier to label him as whining rather than figuring out your own feelings."

Enough was enough. He didn't have to sit here and listen to someone telling him about how he felt guilty. Of course he felt guilty. Hence his obsession with Lilith. Kill Lilith and the guilt and pain and all the bad stuff of the past year would disappear. Dean would be grateful that she was dead, he would see how competent Sam was by himself. Dean wouldn't have to try so hard to be the over-protective brother all of the time. He could let Sam pick up the slack. Dean would get a chance to heal.

"I'd better go and check on Dean," he said. "He never sleeps this late. Ever."

"Let him be, kiddo."

Sam sighed. Blurted out, "I'm not used to this much down time." Because he wasn't. Not any more. It was about traveling from point A to point B, punctuated by hunting and hustling pool and applying for credit cards in false names.

"Why don't you go and burn some energy? Go for a walk. The neighborhood is respectable and there's a local book store about three blocks from here."

He nodded, pushed back from the table. Maybe while he was on a walk, he'd trip over a clue as to Lilith's whereabouts.

{\\SN//}

Dean was surprised to find that daylight was streaming into the bedroom, birds were singing, the sounds of people working outside were drifting in through the slightly open window, and the little alarm clock by the bed was telling him that it was eleven. In the morning. Eleven AM.

No way. No freaking way.

He sat up abruptly. Blinked, double-checked the time. It hadn't changed, except for notching up another minute.

Of all the supernatural stuff he'd ever encountered, sleeping for nine hours was at the top of his list for weirdness. Followed closely by the fact that the world seemed to have taken on a slightly healthier shine. Or at least, he wasn't awake with that all too familiar pressing sense of foreboding and crushing depression. As an added bonus his back wasn't killing him, or anything else for that matter. He was used to waking up some mornings with creaking joints, and aching muscles and feeling like he'd run a marathon.

Today, he felt - normal.

{\\SN//}


	4. Chapter 4

{\\SN//}

Despite the fact that they were low on funds, and Cheryl had a large collection of her own books, Sam had buckled and bought a hard back. It was _Calculated Risks_, which had been around for a couple of years but Sam had never had a chance to read it. A book about the misinterpretation of medical statistical data wasn't big on the priority list at the moment. Besides, Dean wouldn't have left him alone for longer than 15-minutes if he'd stuck his nose in a book like that in Dean's presence. Nor would he be able to convince Dean to read it.

He'd just hauled his way through chapter three, which dealt with innumeracy when Dean announced his return to consciousness by bouncing into the living room.

"Morning, Sam!"

Sam looked up from his book. Discovered his brother standing there, looking... Different. Like he'd someone managed to take a year off his face.

"Morning," replied Sam. "Sleep okay?"

He braced himself for the sarcastic retort. Only it didn't come.

"Yeah. Yeah, actually, I did. I'm gonna go get something to eat. You had breakfast?"

"Earlier."

"Okay. Hope you left something for me."

And with that Dean left the room with a grin and headed for the kitchen.

{\\SN//}

His stomach was being demanding today. It wanted food. Lots of food. Bacon for a start. Then he was going to change the air filter on the car, get the Chevy tuned up.

Cheryl was contemplating a fat, coffee table of a book about baking.

"Morning," he said, feeling distinctly amiable. He glanced over her shoulder. "Any food around?"

"Left overs in the fridge. Just reheat them in the microwave."

"You going to make that?" He pointed at the picture in the book.

"The cupcakes? Sure. Good project for my Marigold troop."

He opened the fridge, poked around and noticed half a dozen left-over breakfast sausages. He grabbed the plate, plus a loaf of bread, and ketchup. Cheryl continued talking.

"You're in a good mood."

"Damn straight," he replied. Then went back to the fridge to see if there was anything he could fry, apart from the sausages. "Is there any bacon?"

"No, sorry. I can get some this afternoon. You feeling any better?"

He paused in his exploration of the fridge and straightened up. "As much as I'm gonna hate to admit it, yeah. I feel pretty good. My back isn't killing me, and neither is anything else."

She seemed pleased.

"I'm thinking we could tackle that Emma problem sooner, rather than later," he continued.

"I said we should give it a few days."

"I'm ready to rock and roll now."

She pursed her lips. "I'm not entirely sure that's a good idea."

Cheryl was about to say something else when her cellphone rang and the Winchester luck, such that it was, ran out.

{\\SN//}

Emma Delores McCoy was nine-years old and knew two things. She didn't particularly enjoy being a Marigold and the two guys that Ms. Cheryl were claiming as nephews, weren't her nephews. She didn't like either of them, especially the one with the short hair cut. He was bossy.

She could tell he was bossy from the moment she first met him. He told her that his name was Dean. About five minutes later he said, "That locket looks interesting. Can I see?"

Of course it looked interesting. It had belonged to her great-great-grandmother. Or so she'd been told. She'd worn it ever since she was four-years-old. It was a special locket and it made her powerful. Made her able to keep the thing in check.

She told Mr. Bossy Boots that he couldn't see her locket. It wasn't for _boys_. The really tall man, the one with the longer hair apologized for Dean and said they were sorry they upset her. Then he gave Dean the same look her mother gave her when she was bad. She remembered to be polite and tell the taller guy it was okay and she wasn't upset and then she grabbed her little brother by the hand and went with Ms. Cheryl to the kitchen.

Ben had complained at being shepherded into the kitchen. He was only five and he was easily distracted by everything, including new people that wanted to talk to him. It was up to Emma to make sure that Ben never got into any trouble, and to watch out for him. Just like her Mom had told her. Her mother was always away on business trips, leaving them alone for a few days here and there. Sometime there would be babysitters, or sometimes she got stuck in hotel rooms, watching TV and ordering from room service. That was boring. She got told the same thing whenever her mother had to go out to a business meeting. Whatever happens, you're the responsible one, Emma.

Emma was completely over being the responsible one. She didn't like having to worry so much but that was her job in the family. Protecting Ben. Keeping _it_ under control.

Today, her Mom had announced that she had to leave all of a sudden and she had called Ms. Cheryl to ask her if she'd babysit. Emma had heard her Mom talking on the phone.

"Look, this is very late notice, and I completely understand, but it's too far to bring the children... Yes... Oh, that's fantastic. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Now they were staying with Ms. Cheryl. That's what her Mom told her to call Ms. McTierney. It was rude to call adults by their first name, but it was too much effort to keep calling people by their last names, 'specially if you knew them.

She wondered if her Mom would have let Ms. Cheryl babysit if she'd known about the two men.

{\\SN//}

The first meeting between the Winchester Brothers and the Emma McCoy had not gone well. It had been incredibly obvious within a minute that Emma's locket was a likely candidate for encouraging paranormal activity. Old, covered in scroll work, and it probably contained a lock of hair.

Unfortunately Dean had only lasted with polite niceties for five minutes before asking about said locket. Somewhere in that five-minute window it seemed that Emma McCoy had taken an instant dislike to Dean Winchester. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Dean watched her flounce out of the room with a frown on his face. "She needs to stow the attitude," he said to Sam.

"Uh, dude. She's like, nine."

"Eight. Nine. Whatever. They're all the same. Attitude. She'll be eating kittens next."

That's when Sam realized that whatever good mood his brother had been in had vanished. He also realized that his brother wasn't talking about Emma, per se. Not really. Because even Sam had noticed the resemblance. The fact that Emma McCoy was blond and strikingly beautiful in the way that Hollywood tended to use as a plot device. The one where the character said something cute and vaguely ominous just before they caved in someone's head with a shovel.

"She's not Lilith," he said.

"I fucking know that," snarled Dean.

"Well, she's not." Sam said it again. "So, you know, don't get..." He stopped. What was he going to say? Don't do something crazy because you think some kid is a high-level demon with a direct pipeline to Lucifer. Don't stab her with the knife?

Dean pretended that he hadn't filled in the rest of the sentence either. "Come on. Let's just figure out a way to grab the locket, burn the fucking thing and get out of here."

"We can't be sure it's the locket," replied Sam. As always, the voice of reason.

"Of course it's the fucking locket. It's old. It's a locket. Locket means hair. We grab it, do a salt 'n burn and then we can go and check out the pheasant."

"Look, Dean, we have to play this one carefully. They're kids. I don't want to get arrested on the suspicion of being a pedophile."

Dean screwed up his nose. "That is fucking gross."

"Hey, we're two guys hanging around in a house with a little girl and boy. Cheryl's right – we don't want to give those kids any excuse to go running back to their mom. Grabbing her necklace and burning the contents is going to attract her attention."

"Yeah, okay, _genius_, I figured we would steal it when she was asleep and then lie and tell her that it got stolen."

"Who do you think she'll suspect?" Sam could see the wheels turning around in Dean's head and he could tell that Dean hadn't thought about it much either. "We're going to have to be _nice_, Dean."

Dean looked at him like he was sprouting an extra head, and Sam realized that these days, neither of them was particularly good at nice. Or being civil.

"You're better at it than me, Samantha. Go at it but I'm not sure if the locket really matches your hair."

Sam didn't say anything, just pursed his lips and counted to one hundred like he always did.

They were so, so screwed.

{\\SN//}

Emma let Ben sit in a chair at the table. Ms. Cheryl was getting out mixing bowls, and that meant they were going to do some baking. Emma liked baking.

Ms. Cheryl smiled at her. "Did you meet the guys?"

Emma nodded, tried to smile back. Tried to sound convincing. "Yes. They were nice."

It must have been the way she said it, because Ms. Cheryl frowned slightly.

"Emma, honey, I'm sorry your Mom went away for the weekend. But we're going to have lots of fun, so the time is going to go really quickly."

Ben made a little sighing sound from his chair, like he was really sick of it all, already. Emma felt like sighing herself. She didn't think of Sam and Dean as nice. They felt like they were... decent. That's the word that came to her mind. She sensed that much about them. Decent. Maybe kind, maybe not. Not nice though. Nice didn't necessarily mean that's what a person was like inside.

Other things rolled off them though. Things like doubt and fear and guilt. Anger too. Not anger that was going to get anyone hurt, just a screaming sense of unfairness. Especially from the guy with the short hair cut. Which was why she didn't really like him.

She was never sure what all of the emotions meant. But she understood being angry and scared. She understood that far too well. She didn't want to be reminded of it, and certainly didn't want to be reminded that there were even worse things to be scared of. Dean was the kind of man that attracted the wrong and bad to them. Because people who were wrong and bad needed to victimize others.

Dean Winchester seemed ready to be a victim in the right circumstances.

{\\SN//}

Sam and Dean stayed in the living room and watched TV. Cheryl, Emma and Ben stayed in the kitchen but then the smell of baking wafted into the living room and hit Dean's nostrils and worked its way up into the part of the brain that controlled endorphins and in Dean, that part just happened to be strongly associated with food.

His curiosity, and his stomach, got the better of him and he found himself being drawn to the kitchen even though that evil little girl would be there. Sam followed him for something to do.

They found the kitchen littered with cupcakes. It was another bake-off.

"You boys here to volunteer?" Cheryl was mixing frosting in a bowl. She gave it to Emma who carefully placed it on the bench and picked up a spatula. Ben was positioned by an empty tray. He was standing on a little plastic step-stool.

"I'm helping," announced Ben,"I have to put the frosted ones on the tray so that the frosting can set."

"Oh," said Dean, "that sounds, um, really helpful."

"You two could also help," said Cheryl.

Before Dean could say reply, Sam jumped in and interrupted. "I'd love to. But I'm no good at this stuff. Dean's _terrific_ though. Nothing he likes better than baking and cake decorating."

Just to punctuate his statement, Sam gave Dean a little push forward and then simply walked out. Cheryl nodded, handed him an apron.

"I don't think so," said Dean with a huffy tone.

Ben giggled. "You're gonna get it on your t-shirt and then your Mom will be mad at you."

Dean didn't reply to that statement directly and didn't take the apron either. But he'd been drafted anyway. Hijacked. Shanghaied. Assigned to decorating.

The rest of the time was fairly predictable. He'd initially been assigned to frosting assistance but Emma and Ben had deemed him unreliable in the frosting department after he'd been caught sticking his finger into the frosting and then sticking said finger into his mouth.

Emma's squeals of indignation made her feelings clear on the subject.

"Grooosssss."

Dean raised an eyebrow and tried to look like nothing had happened. Ben just giggled as if Dean had performed some amazing act of derring-do.

"Ms. Cheryl, Mr. Dean ate frosting out of the bowl with his hands," said Ben.

Dean swallowed the raspberry flavored sugary goodness before offering a retort. "It wasn't my _hands_. Nobody eats frosting with their hands."

Cheryl had stopped her production line at the oven and gazed intently at Dean.

"So, you didn't eat any frosting?"

Dean decided it was time to out-and-out lie. Brazen lying had been known to work in a tight situation. Not consistently, maybe not even ninety percent – but when it did, it was damn useful.

"No. I didn't eat any frosting. Especially with my hands."

"Then why do you have frosting on your chin?"

Dean sighed, grabbed a paper napkin from the counter and wiped at his chin.

Emma folded her arms in triumph. "Hah! Mr. Dean should only be allowed to decorate. Tell him, Ms. Cheryl. Tell him he's only allowed to decorate."

Cheryl agreed. "Sorry, Dean. I can't afford to mix another batch of frosting every time you decide to snack."

"You know, my hands are clean." Dean was feeling out numbered and picked on.

Emma summarized her feelings on his personal hygiene habits as well. "You're a _boy_. Boys are stupid and they smell."

Cheryl bit her lip trying not to laugh. Ben didn't react, as if he'd heard that insult so many times, he'd blocked it out. Dean couldn't even reply immediately. He was trying to think up a witty retort and failing.

"Okay, fine. I'll decorate. But I can't be held responsible for the results."

This seemed to satisfy everyone in the room, except for the only adult male. Dean decided that what he really wanted to do was eat the cupcakes but they were all for a bake sale and he was forbidden to touch them from a consumption perspective. Then he offered to buy them but it turned out Emma and Ben were sticklers for rules.

He'd forgotten how rigidly small children stuck to their very black and white view of the world. There was no gray and they were like mini-judges, always on the look-out for crime. Sam had gone through a similar phase, happily ratting out his brother on a regular basis for all manner of minor transgressions.

He decided the next cupcake would look better topped with skull and crossbones but of course the stupid packet of decorations only contained noxiously precious items like roses, hearts and sprinkles. He half heartedly threw some red colored sprinkles onto the cupcake.

Emma looked at the cupcake in disgust. "You're not doing it right."

"It's a cupcake," said Dean.

"It should look pretty. Like the ones that Ms. Cheryl made." Emma pointed to three perfect cupcakes artfully arranged on a plate, looking for all the world like they'd been produced in a bakery. "Nobody's going to buy them if they look like they're made by am-a-teurs."

She pronounced 'amateurs' like a demented Gloria Swanson in _Sunset Boulevard_. A movie Dean had watched about twenty times in his life because it always seemed to be on somewhere. Much like _It's a Wonderful Life_. A movie Dean regarded as a giant piece of false advertising.

Dean put down the sprinkles to eyeball Emma. "You're nine. You're an amateur by definition."

Emma returned the stare. "Oh yeah? And you're just a … You're just a _boy_." This seemed to be Emma's standard response to Dean's perceived failings.

"And you're just a _girl_, so that makes us even."

He heard the start of a laugh and then a choking sound as Cheryl composed herself and turned to face Dean and Emma. Ben watched Dean with a growing look of admiration on his innocent face. Clearly Ben had never dared argue with this older sister.

"That's enough you two. Emma, Dean is doing the best that he can. Concentrate on your own job."

Emma briefly pouted and then did as she was told. "Yes, ma'am."

"And, Dean. You are doing the best that you can. Aren't you? That's the Marigold motto. Always try your hardest."

Dean felt like he should be pouting as well but instead, admitted defeat. "Okay. Roses it is." To prove his point, he shoved one rose on top of the cupcake he was holding and when no one was looking ate two roses, a heart and a bunny.

He also vowed that when he was finished here, he was going to kick Sam's ass. If he wasn't stuck with this he'd be pointing an EMF meter in the general direction of these two pint-sized horrors.

Sam had _so_ better being doing research.

{\\SN//}

Sam sat in the living room, laptop balanced on his knees and listened to the vague sounds of mayhem from the kitchen. It sounded like Dean was thoroughly outnumbered.

For all of his machismo strutting, Dean was easily flustered when he was required him to operate with groups, or be the center of attention. Parties, the few they had been to as teenagers, were a disaster, with Dean turning into a semi-wallflower until he could grab a girl and leave. The simple act of celebrating Dean's birthday was enough to turn Dean into an embarrassed, stammering mess.

Right now, his brother was stuck in a kitchen trying to do something mind-blowingly ordinary and it was probably scaring the crap out of him. It was funny and it was pitiful but Sam had decided that it was the perfect opportunity for his brother to have something mundane to worry about. Cupcake decorating seem about as mundane as anyone could get.

Sam however, had started their genuine worrying by doing some research. He started typing in another set of search items. Typing in the name 'Emma McCoy' had yielded 989,000 hits and narrowing it down further had proved to be a dead end. He'd been trying to track down images of the locket but getting nowhere. The only upside of research was that Cheryl had a wireless network set up in the house, and he'd just had to get the WPA key from her to join.

Problem was that he didn't know enough about Emma or the locket to type in any term that was likely to get a result. On a whim he typed in, "lockets" and then "sigils".

That got about 16,200 hits. Still a huge number of returns to wade through but not as daunting. He clicked on 'Images' and idly flicked through the photos. To his surprise, the second page contained a black and white photo with a picture of the locket.

He clicked the link, navigated to a genealogy site. The photo was dated to 1880. A woman, stiff and formal in her Victorian dress, the morbid black material fanning out around her, was pictured standing behind a group of three young women. The youngest girl was wearing the locket. None of them were smiling; a typical portraiture of the day.

The photo was accompanied by a small history.

_Mrs. Mary Ann Lowry, with her three daughters, around 1880. Mrs Lowry was left a widow when her husband, Calvin, mysteriously vanished and was presumed dead in their tenth year of marriage. Her husband had been a wealthy industrialist and Mrs Lowry devoted her life to works of charity and the upbringing of her children. The Lowry's only son, Michael, died in mysterious circumstances in 1870. He was found dead, in the attic of the house covered in bruises from a beating. Mr and Mrs Lowry were not suspects and the person responsible was never found, although police suspected it was a runaway slave based on the reports of Mr. Lowry. _

At least the photo confirmed the age of the locket and it would be a good guess that it had been passed down from generation to generation. It would only take a few moments later on in the evening to confirm the contents and then they'd be on their way. And they really needed to be going because the skittering in his veins told him that he needed to find Ruby and needed to get back to hunting for Lilith.

He glanced around the living room, made sure he couldn't hear anyone approaching on the wooden floors. Retrieved the hip flask from the shoulder bag, and took a gulp. Tasted blood. Dark. Demony.

_Aged in an oak cask and suffused with hints of hell._

He swallowed, tried not to laugh as wine tasting metaphors danced around in his head. Thirty seconds later he felt just about normal again. He shoved the hip flask back into the shoulder bag, congratulated himself on a job well done. He was an expert at hiding in plain sight.

Dean crashed into the living room just as his hand left the bag.

"That's it. I swear to God, we are taking care of this job, and then leaving tomorrow, first thing." He dug around in his pockets, fumbling for something that wasn't there. "Where the fuck are the keys?"

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Dean, you can't-"

Dean pointed a finger at him. "Nope. Uh, uh. Don't want to hear it. This was supposed to be some simple job that probably didn't involve anything supernatural. Now it's..." Dean's voice trailed off as he struggled to find a suitable description.

"What?"

"Weird. I don't like it."

"You're telling me that you're weirded out by two kids?"

"Dude! No, I am not weirded out by them. I just... I just think this whole job is stupid and pointless."

"You realize you sound like a girl right now, don't you?"

"Shut your pie hole. I'll come back when that bossy little queen bee with the control issues has gone to sleep."

Sam blinked. "Really? You're going to go and hide because of a girl?"

"I'm not fucking hiding."

"Where are you doing to go then? To a bar?"

"No," Dean replied. He had schooled his face into a neutral expression, and when Dean tried to look like he had no emotions, it usually meant he was lying.

Sam waited.

Dean cracked. "Okay, fine. Yes. Whatever."

"I'm not coming to get you."

"I don't expect you too."

"I know what's going to happen. You're going to get hammered and then you're going to call me and beg me to come and get you. I'm not doing it."

"Well, gee, Sammy, thanks for the warning. Not much of a surprise though. Seeing as how you're all into that, tough love 'cause Dean's fucked up routine."

Sam didn't say anything, just put a hand to his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. This was crazy. The two of them. Lying their God damned heads off to each other and Sam was the biggest liar of all. He was keeping up his pretense of the old Sam because he knew Dean wouldn't approve of his method for trying to make everything the way it was before – before Dean went to hell.

He honestly considered telling Dean. Right there, right now. Somehow find a way through this mess but he heard Dean make a noise in his throat. A huffing sound that said Dean had misread Sam's silence. He thought it was disapproval.

"Yeah, sorry I'm so fucked up. Must be terrible for you having such a dumb, screwed up brother."

"Jesus, Dean. Just stop it. Stop the self pity."

Dean's hands tightened into fists. Looked like he wanted to punch something, the something being Sam.

"I can't win with you. Tell me what you're feeling, don't tell me what you're feeling. It's like you have permanent fucking PMS." Dean opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped himself. Turned to walk away. To be stopped by someone else entering the room.

Cheryl. With Emma and Ben.

"Emma has something she wants to say to you." Cheryl looked down at Emma.

The girl hung her head, looked sullen and unhappy. "I'm sorry I threw your cupcakes on the floor because they were no good."

Cheryl frowned, put her hand on Emma's shoulders. "I think you should try that again, Emma."

The little girl stuck out her bottom lip, clearly unused to any sort of discipline.

"I'm sorry I threw your cupcakes on the floor. They were good cupcakes." Her tone of voice said that as far as she was concerned, they weren't any good at all.

Ben however, seemed more contrite. He'd been crying. "We didn't mean to make anyone mad. We didn't. I liked your cupcakes Mr. Dean. It doesn't matter that you drew a big swirly pattern on top of them that didn't make any sense."

Cheryl nodded at Ben, stared expectantly at Dean.

"Uh. Great. Thanks for that," he replied, looking uncomfortable.

"Okay, you two, why don't you stay here with Sam for a few minutes while I go and talk to Dean alone."

"You gonna tell him off too?" Emma seemed to think there were two sides to the argument.

"Maybe. Now be good. If everyone's good, I'll order pizza 'cause it's Friday night."

"Yay!" Ben clapped his hands in delight. Emma went and sat in a chair, crossed her arms with an expression that said she was daring anyone to try and cheer her up.

"You okay there, Sam?" asked Cheryl.

Sam wanted to reply that no, no he was not okay, but he smiled and nodded and figured he could keep some kids entertained for all of five minutes. Although he wasn't sure. When he was a kid, his favorite game with his brother had been throwing rocks at cans and throwing rocks in ponds. He may have been a sensitive little book worm but he was also a Winchester.

"We can watch the Disney channel," replied Sam. Ben brightened at the news.

Cheryl tugged Dean by the arm. "Come on. Let's go."

{\\SN//}


	5. Chapter 5

{\\SN//}

Dean found himself dragged upstairs to his room, feeling more and more like he was a kid himself and wanting nothing more than to climb into the Impala and drive far away. To somewhere with subdued lighting, and a jukebox, fries, and shot glasses. A pretty brunette with low inhibitions and in need of a good time wouldn't go astray either.

"You wanna tell me why you had the urge to decorate bake sale cupcakes with sigils?" Cheryl had given him a gentle shove inside and was now blocking the door way, hands on hips.

"I don't know what the big deal is. No one at the bake sale would have known what they were and if they did, they sure as hell wouldn't have said anything."

"Emma seemed to know. Maybe not on a conscious level. But she knew."

"You think that's why she threw them on the floor? Because they were protective sigils?"

"I'm not sure. She could have. But she's also a kid with some issues. She could have thrown them on the floor because she's overly tired, misses her Mom and she thinks you suck."

Dean shrugged. "I prefer the other explanation."

"You two haven't exactly hit it off. Why is that anyway? Do you hate kids?"

"No, I don't hate kids."

"Then what's up?"

"She reminds me of someone."

"Someone you knew?"

"You could say that."

"A relative? Someone you were fond of maybe?"

Dean almost laughed at the thought. "Fond wouldn't be the right word."

"What then?"

"Sam knows. Sam knows exactly what's going on. He just thinks I'm being a pussy."

"Yeah, okay, enough about Sam. I'd like to hear about this from you."

Dean sat on the edge of the bed feeling unbalanced. He shouldn't feel this way. Not at all. It was a simple job, and they were going to fix everything right up and it wasn't fair that he'd had precisely four hours of feeling vaguely okay about the world and now he was stuck right back where he'd started on the previous day. Except his mood had been precipitated by a nine-year old girl throwing around baked goods.

Then there was Cheryl. As much as he wanted to clam shut and just not even deal with it, and not talk to anyone, something about her made him want to confess. It annoyed him that underneath everything, there was this pathetic need for someone to actually care about him and if he'd learned one thing, being cared about inevitably got him hurt.

"The demon that held my contract, she – she kind of liked possessing little girls."

Cheryl wrinkled her nose. "Nasty."

"She liked pretty blond ones the best. So, uh, when I was down stairs, down there – not here, but in hell - she, uh, she liked to help out Alistair."

Cheryl didn't say anything, but her expression was sympathetic and she stepped closer, allowing him to decide whether to elaborate or not. She didn't bother to interrupt to ask him to clarify who Alistair was and that let him just barrel along while he still had the courage to talk.

"Alistair liked torturing me best because I wouldn't give in but sometimes, you know, sometimes he'd get bored, or maybe Lilith got bored, I dunno..." He shook his head, trying to express something that was essentially incapable of being expressed. "She deliberately used to assume the form of a girl and then she'd have herself a great time skinning me. Being skinned by a blond girl in a blue dress with ribbons, and that dress getting soaked through with blood - it's... What's a word for that? I don't know any words for it."

He stopped, his brain caught in a loop of trying to figure it out, like a thesaurus. A thesaurus let you find a word that was similar, or completely dissimilar. His brain seized upon the word, "horrific." But that wasn't it either because it seemed too bland. Maybe you had to invent new words when major shit happened.

"Can I sit down?"

Cheryl had crossed to his side of the room and he hadn't noticed it much. He nodded, and he felt her weight sink down into the mattress.

"I didn't realize. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if I'd known. I don't think Bobby really put two-and-two together either."

"I've never told anyone before, so he couldn't have known."

"You probably want a drink right about now."

He smiled ruefully. "Four or five shots at this point would really steady my nerves."

"No good on a hunt though."

"No. No good."

"You want to take a nap or something? You can hide up here for a while until you're ready. Maybe watch TV."

"Too wired."

"You're going to have to find a way to calm down that doesn't involve alcohol or storming off."

"Illegal drugs?"

"No."

"Maybe I could take a page out of Emma's book and throw cupcakes around."

Cheryl laughed and Dean relaxed fractionally. If nothing else he was pretty good at diffusing tension with humor. He'd become adept at it when trying to forestall a developing argument between his brother and father. When a joke at his own expense didn't work, he was known to get between them when he had too. Not that it made any difference since they never took any notice of him anyway.

"Lie down," she said.

"This is not the time to go free-range cougar on me Ms. McTierney."

"Don't flatter yourself. I prefer men with experience."

"I've got experience. Car loads of experience. I'm so experienced my official title is Sensei Dean Winchester." He grinned at her playfully. Knew that she wasn't interested and regarded him as more of a kid than a man. But hey, it didn't hurt to have some fun on both sides.

"Get back to me when you can go for a couple of hours straight."

"Now you're just making things up. No human man is capable of going at it for two hours straight."

She laughed, gave him a gentle shove but he still wasn't about to lie down. "See, now I know you're full of shit about the experience, kiddo. Go read up on tantric sex and get back to me."

"You're just making me want to go and hijack Sam's laptop for dirty purposes. Which would be bad since he's already mad at me for the three gigs of porn I accidentally downloaded to the hard drive last week."

"Take off your shoes."

"You do not want to go there. Fair warning, it's a bad, bad place."

"Remember how I said I was as doctor in the army? I've cut boots off soldiers who've been wearing them for six weeks straight."

"This is sounding creepy. What're you going to do?"

"Give you a foot massage."

Dean stood up and took a couple of steps away from her. "No. Woah. Creepy. Creepy with creepy on top."

"What? You never had a foot massage? It's an old stand-by of nurses and health care professionals everywhere."

"They offered them, I never took 'em."

"It's relaxing."

"No."

"It reduces anxiety and can reduce pain."

"Blah-blah-blah. Had the lecture thank you. In hospital. With touchy-feely nurses."

"For someone that has no issues with standing waste deep in blood and guts, I'm surprised you're this squeamish."

"I have boundaries. Like normal people. Big, personal space boundaries." Dean indicated his boundaries with a wide extension of his arms.

She eyed him up again with that appraisal thing she did so well. Guessed the truth without him having to say it.

"I take it you've got some issues with touch sensitivity."

He sighed. Damn, she was good. He wished he would just stop talking already. _Shut up, shut up, shut up_. Stop telling her things.

The thing was - she wasn't Sam. Or Bobby. Hadn't reacted like either of them. Bobby was as understanding as he could be, but he wasn't big on the confessing and sobbing into Kleenex. Sam had his own issues. At least, that's what Dean had managed to deduce from Sam's permanent disapproval. Sam always had a stick up his ass about ethics or whatever, and finding out that his brother had been torturing souls in hell had just about wedged that stick half way up Sam's colon. Of course Dean wasn't sure but he had guessed long ago that ethics and morals could be talked about but it was your actions that should be judged. Sam talked a lot but of late but his ethics seemed to be working on a sliding scale. Part of the attraction to Cheryl was that she was a person he'd never see again. Or rarely. And strangers didn't blab because they had no one to blab too. 'Cept for Bobby of course.

"If you breath a word of this to Bobby, so help me I'll tell him you insulted his collection of gimme caps."

"Patient confidentiality. Not happening. Besides, he knows I'd never insult his collection. The cap with the pig on the front is a keeper."

She smiled encouragingly at him. He dropped his head, sat back down on the bed and concentrated on the floor.

"You know how I mentioned that hell thing?"

"Yeah. Figured it had something to do with that."

"I was never big on the touch thing, except with you know-"

"-Sex."

"Right. Uh. Sex. But since I got back, every time someone touches me, it's like I get... Overloaded."

"It hurts?"

"It sort of short circuits everything. I flash back to the rack, feel like maybe someone's beating me. They liked beatings. You can break all the bones over a couple of days. Make it last a long time." He stopped. Swallowed. Tried hard not to think about what it felt like to have his teeth smashed out and his lower jaw broken and hanging open.

She crossed her arms, didn't get off the bed, didn't react to what he was saying. He was grateful for that. People got squeamish about this sort of stuff. Even Sam. He'd let a tiny smattering of the gory details out one night and even Sam had gone pale and then made an excuse to go to the bathroom.

Cheryl seemed to be considering her next step. "Okay. You feel like experimenting?"

"I told you. That free range cougar act won't work with me."

"I wouldn't molest you if they paid me. You're just not my type. Now, in all seriousness, kick your shoes off, lie down and we'll see what happens."

This was alien to his entire nature. He didn't want to and then again he did. God knows he hadn't experienced any worthwhile human touch in a while that wasn't about sex even before he'd been whisked down under. He still liked sex when he could get it, but it had turned into a major exercise in control, always making sure he kept telling himself it was sex and not a violation. Even then, there were positions to consider. A women on top meant someone in control and him having to lie down and take it. He used to enjoy watching a woman above him, her mouth slightly agape in pleasure, setting up a rhythm and using his hands to help her along. Of late that same view left him spooked to the point of panic. About the only person he hadn't panicked with was Anna.

Apart from that his only other recent experience with touch was getting a hand print branded onto his shoulder by an angel and that definitely didn't count either. Nor did manly hugging.

She stood up and he threw caution to the wind, willing to try. He toed himself out of his boots, swung his feet onto the bed spread, settled himself onto the pillow. Felt disturbingly vulnerable.

He wanted to run screaming out the door, so instead he said, "Sam isn't going to last five minutes with those two kids."

"He'll be okay unless he's a completely clueless moron around children."

"If the name fits."

"Okay. You wanna watch me here? I'm going to put my hand on your ankle. Nothing else. Not grasping at it, just open palmed."

He broke out in a cold sweat, tried to push himself up. "Sammy is going to be pissed at me if we stay up here. He's going to want dinner soon and Dad's gonna be gone for days."

He didn't have a clue what he was saying, rambling maybe and Cheryl frowned slightly before she lightly put a hand on his ankle. All instinct, he jerked his foot back, then stopped, felt his cheeks blushing _for God's sake_, at the shame of reacting like some skittish kid.

"Shit. Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." She sat back a little, waited for him to get himself under control.

He slide his leg back down, felt like a damn fool. "I'm so fucked up."

"You need to stow that talk," she said, her voice a little more commanding than it had been. "What I do know is that you shouldn't be so damn hard on yourself."

"Easy for you to say," he shot back, the humiliation still with him. "You have no idea what I've done."

"No. I don't. But you can tell me."

He had the sudden urge not to look at her and instinctively rolled over, away from her. Something in Dean's Winchester's world that amounted to yet another act of weakness. He couldn't even make eye contact for fuck's sake. "People that know - Sam, for one. They don't like me after I tell them."

"I presume Castiel knows."

"Yeah, well, he would. Busting me out of hell and all. He probably saw me do it."

"Do you remember the prison break?"

"No. It's the one thing I don't remember."

"So. I know I keep telling you this, but I was a doctor in the army. Years. I've seen it all, heard it all. People do things in war that they're not proud of. Things they never tell anyone. Not their family, not their partners, not anyone. The guilt of those things eats them alive."

"And I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that if I talk to someone about it, I'll feel better."

"No. You won't feel better if you tell the wrong person. Telling someone who might just understand would help though."

He struggled a bit with this concept, didn't bother rolling back to face her but opened his mouth anyway. "They offered me a way to get off the rack. They said if I agreed to torture other souls, then I could get down. I always said no. Always, always. But I didn't realize what _eternity_ meant. Until one day I did. Because it meant that it was never going to end. Never. I didn't see myself getting out, and the pain..." He shuddered, his body starting to shake as the memory temporarily overwhelmed him. "I just wanted it to stop, you know? I wanted just one day where I wasn't screaming and hurting. I just thought, I'll fool 'em, do one day, then tell them where to stick it. But it was just – God, it was _so good. _It was so good not hurting that I was scared to go back. One day just turned into two and two turned into months and months turned into years. Somewhere along the way, I started liking making people hurt. Really liking it."

He stopped, wondered if he was going to throw up if he continued, but kept talking anyway because for once no one was telling him to quit whining, or telling him he was pathetic, or a loser or spineless. "Demons get made by having their humanity stripped away and I have no idea what I was like when Castiel came down and pulled me out, but I think I was well on my way to being one. Alistair really liked me in the last five-years. Said I was the best pupil he'd ever had. You know, when he said stuff like that, I was really proud of myself."

He stopped, feeling polluted and crappy.

Cheryl didn't speak for a moment. He thought it might be due to disgust but instead he felt the hand go back on his ankle, squeeze it, and he didn't pull away.

"Dean, why do people go to hell?"

He was so startled by the question he rolled back to look at her even though he could feel his nose starting to run. "Huh? What kind of question is that?"

"A valid one. Why do people go to hell?"

"Crossroad deals. Selling their souls. Sin."

"Okay, sin. What kind of sin?"

"Things are a bit fuzzy around that area."

"Not for the big stuff though. The big stuff is clear. Do you get to go to Heaven if you murder someone?"

Dean shrugged.

"What about child abuse?"

Dean thought again and shrugged again.

"Rape?"

He didn't know how to respond. Cheryl continued. "The Bible is clear about the rules. If you refuse to acknowledge God, to move into the light and ask for His forgiveness, then you pay the price for your crimes. God leaves it in your hands, as a free choice, but it's clear what happens to those who are intent on committing evil on Earth."

He blinked, wished he had some tissues, and then gave up and wiped at his nose on the back of his sweatshirt.

"All I'm saying Dean is that you should consider that a good majority of those you tortured had their opportunity to repent. Had it for their entire lives. The price to pay is spelled out clearly and for many of them, we could say they deserved it."

His eyes nearly fell out his head. "No one deserves to be tortured for eternity. No one deserves to be turned into a demon."

"I'd say most of them were already demons, they just hadn't acknowledged that yet. People who commit evil rarely think of themselves as evil. Are you so willing to say that someone who deliberately hurt people in terrible ways, with forethought and malice, didn't deserve the punishment you dealt out?"

The hand tightened on his ankle. He ignored it, unable to give up on his logic, his tone accusatory. "What about all those people you said did things in war that they shouldn't have? Do you think they're going to hell?"

"No. I said that evil must be committed deliberately. People make mistakes in war and they regret them deeply. The creatures who go to hell for their sins don't regret anything they do. They're very happy with what they do. That's the difference."

It occurred to him he had never considered that argument before. He'd made assumptions, for some reason actually believing his victims were less guilty than they were. His brain didn't like to entertain those types of thoughts. Who was he to be jury and executioner?

A thumb was rubbing over the bone of his ankle as he stumbled around in the murky waters of his random memories, and tried to piece them together. Did anyone ever tell him what those souls had done to earn a trip to hell? He didn't remember Alistair saying anything, just that he had to do his job. Don't question, just do your job and do it well. Alistair there, day one, guiding his hand through his first incisions on a torso like some fucked up scene from Ghost.

He shuddered again, felt something different in him like maybe a small glimmer of hope.

She continued, her voice soft. "I'm not asking you to completely change your world view. Just consider another set of facts before you condemn yourself. You feel terrible about what you did, and I understand that. But I doubt that the people you tortured were innocent."

Dean wiped at his nose again. "Doesn't make it right though, does it?"

"If you had done this to actual living people, in this world, I would be outraged. Human beings are fallible, and that means we can't ever be sure that we can justify such an extreme act. But if the Bible is right, then God knows everything about what's in our hearts. I would like to think that if people get sent to hell for their sins, the nature of that sin can't be argued about on a sliding scale. They are in hell because of the evidence."

"But I can't be sure that those souls were all bad. There's people down there who made really stupid deals." He sniffed. "Like me."

The thumb kept gently massaging his stupid ankle bone, which was connected to his leg bone, connected to his thigh bone, connected to his hip bone, connected to his back bone, connected to his head bone and that's all there was folks. Just his empty head bone.

He bit his lip to stop crying and at that point he surprised himself by starting to cry anyway. Crap. The humiliations never ceased and any second Sam would come upstairs to check on them and catch his brother bawling. 'Cause this wasn't the silent crying he was so good at doing. This was the disgusting, snuffling, undignified type. He was making sounds he didn't even know he could make.

He hauled himself up, barely able to see straight and staggered past her. She went after him.

"Where you going?"

He didn't reply because he couldn't say anything intelligible. Just scrabbled for the sanctity of white tiles and fluffy towels and a shower that would drown out his pitiful sounds. He managed to get into the bathroom, forgot to lock the door. He wound up sitting on the lid of the toilet, sobbing.

He thought he saw Cheryl sliding down to sit on the cold floor.

"Hey, it's okay."

He took a few deep breaths to get himself under control, had to grab for some toilet paper to blow his nose. "If you tell me this is," he paused, trying to remember a word some doctor had used in yet another inevitable hospital stay, "cathartic then you can go fuck yourself."

She snorted at his reply. "No. I wasn't going to tell you that. It's hardly cathartic for people to feel even worse because they think they showed a lack of self control. All I was going to say is that it's okay to feel like crap, and sometimes even feel sorry for yourself. Screw everyone else. That includes Heaven and hell. Your experience is your own. Value judgments from the cheap seats aren't going to help."

Dean wiped at his eyes again with the back of his now disgusting sweatshirt. The toilet paper he was holding had turned soggy. Cheryl passed him a towel.

"I'm a freaking mess," he stated.

"Yeah, you are. But a remarkably sane mess considering the crap you've been through."

He managed to laughed at that, held out his hand. "You totally have to stamp me for that. Not insane."

{\\SN//}

Sam was discovering that he was, for the most part, bewildered by children. Ben was dancing in front of the TV like he'd taken a hit of methamphetamine. Four guys dressed in bright colored and badly fitting turtle necks were singing a song about a hot potato. Apparently the band also featured a dinosaur and a pirate. They were also Australian.

"He also likes Fruit Salad," said Emma. With a long suffering sigh. She was clutching a fluorescent colored water bottle and sipping from it like some sort of pint sized alcoholic.

"The dessert?" Sam was confused.

"No, the song." Another sigh. "I keep telling him he's too old for all of this baby stuff."

"Am not! I like _High-5_, and _Dora_, and _Spider-Ma_n!" Ben managed to say without slowing down.

"I like _Avatar: The Last Air Bender_," said Emma. In a way that the show she liked was far superior to any of Ben's chosen fare. "But they don't make it any more."

Ben continued dancing then spun around in a little circle until he fell over on the floor. Emma got out of her seat, and stood over her little brother, bending down to peer into his eyes with adult seriousness.

"You can't just lie around on the floor."

"Yes, I can! Ms. Cheryl will let me!"

"No, it's stupid."

"I'm gonna make a fort!" And he was up again, and grabbing pillows from the couch.

Sam had an overwhelming urge to rest his head in both hands. The kid never slowed down and seemed to speak with permanent over enthusiasm. As Ben grabbed another pillow he realized that when it came to speaking to whatever child they encountered on a hunt, he always let Dean take the lead. Dean seemed to know what to say at just the right time while Sam lurked thankfully in the background.

He was more at home with surly teenagers although even then Dean seemed to be better at figuring out the actual problem, rather than the perceived one.

As he was contemplating his inadequacies as a child minder, he also noticed the locket, not swinging to movement. It was there, dead center, dead calm and still balanced on top of Emma's t-shirt even though Emma was leaning over, hands on hips.

In fact, the more he looked, the more he realized that no matter what Emma did, no matter how she moved, that locket stayed center. It never budged.

Well, that confirmed the magic angle. But just why she had that locket, and whether anyone had ever tried to remove it was a different matter.

Suddenly, he felt better. The locket was tangible and real. There was certainty in the uncertainty of the supernatural. It played by semi-reasonable and predictable rules. In the case of vanquishing demons and ghosts there were clear winners. Usually they were the Winchester Brothers.

Ben didn't seem so irritating any more. Sam found himself itching to get out of his seat, find Dean, get this show on the road because at least when they were fighting the supernatural, they weren't fighting each other. There would be no time to worry about anything else and he liked it that way.

{\\SN//}

Dean shuffled into the living room about thirty minutes later, knowing he was red eyed and Sam would probably think he'd been drinking. Cheryl followed him, not saying anything, kind of acting like his wing-man. Or wing-woman. No, not right either. Like some sort of family member.

Aw, fuck. The woman was making him crazy.

Ben had thrown some cushions into the middle of the living room and was now jumping around in front of the TV in ways that reminded him of Sam at that age. Up until the age of five, kids danced in a bizarre off-tempo jiggling movement that melted the heart of any adult watching while simultaneously reducing them to laughter. Sam had gone through a stage of toddler dancing to commercial breaks.

Sam he noticed, was kind of getting-jiggy with it in the way that signified he just might have managed to get a big, fat clue on the hoodoo front. Sam saw him, and got up from the couch so fast it was like he couldn't wait to be Dean's best friend all over again.

Sam grabbed Dean by the elbow, paused briefly to acknowledge Cheryl and asked her to take care of the kids.

Ben, it seemed, didn't care who was in charge. He ran up to Cheryl and said, "I tried to build a fort but Emma said I couldn't 'cause you wouldn't like it, but I said you wouldn't mind."

Emma sighed. "You're such a little tattle-tale."

Dean thought he actually might just agree with her. He didn't have time to consider much else as Sam pulled him towards the kitchen.

"What's up, Sammy?"

"The locket," replied Sam, almost breathless with the excitement of finally getting something to do.

"What about it?"

"It's magically bound to _her_. Emma."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"That locket – I never noticed it before, probably not many people do, but it's bound to her. To one spot. It never moves."

"You think it's magically welded to her?"

"Something like that."

Dean shook his head. "You think it hurts?"

"It can't, I mean she must change her clothes and stuff."

"Then it can't be _welded_ to her. Maybe she just can't remove it."

"Okay then, smart ass, why would anyone make sure that a little girl can never remove a locket? And why is that locket in a photo taken in 1880?"

Dean went silent for a moment, contemplating the latest piece of news. "Okay, silver locket. Scroll work on front is probably a major hoodoo sigil. Somehow the whatever-it-is is being passed down through the family?"

"Cheryl said that the other kids were frightened of her, that the boy at the party was covered in bruises and Emma seems to have been targeted too. Why?" Sam paused, considering the options.

Dean shook his head." Maybe it's passed down from family to family and the locket is the only way to control the whatever it is."

"There's no such thing as intergenerational possession."

"Never say never, Sammy. We've both experienced a shit load of things we thought would never happen. I never thought I was gonna wind up this good looking and I was fairly certain you were never gonna lose your virginity."

"Hilarious, as always. But seriously, dude, if it's intergenerational, then what are we dealing with?"

"Major freaky ass shit that's what."

Sam chewed his bottom lip. It meant he had doubt and Dean always felt his level of irritation rising when Sam started questioning everything. Sam began voicing his theory. "Dude, if this is a possession and that locket is somehow controlling it - do we really want to break the spell?"

"You're kidding, right? We're not going to leave some kid to a God awful fate."

"But we don't know that it's bad. Maybe it's protecting everyone from something worse."

"Seriously, are you even listening to yourself? It's freaking spooky and we don't leave civilians to have to deal with spooky."

"Not even if the spooky actually does some good?"

Dean couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He raised a hand, finger pointing at Sam and jabbed him in the chest. "No. Spooky is not good. Never good."

"Not even angels?"

"They're not spooky, their just ethereal pains in the fucking ass."

Sam snickered at the description and relaxed. "Okay. We'll do it your way. Salt?"

"Fucking pounds of it. Plus crosses, silver, iron, holy water. Every freaking thing in the Impala, and then some. Plus, break out the Sharpies and spray paint, 'cause I think we're sketching out a major devil's trap."

Sam paused, frowned. "We can't use Sharpies and spray paint. These are hardwood floors. They'll be ruined."

Normally Dean would have told Sam that he was the biggest girl this side of the Rockies, but he thought Sam had a good point. This wasn't some crappy motel with stained carpets and a moldy bathroom.

"It's not permanent. You can take it off with WD-40."

"Only if it's not completely dried."

"I wiped it off that hotel room door that one time."

"You took to it with acetone and peeled the varnish off the door."

"I wasn't the one who felt guilty about screwing up a first class hotel room."

"Dean, they'd given us the room for free and we were destroying it. It was turning into that banquet hall scene from Ghostbusters."

"Man, that was a funny movie," Dean shook his head in amusement. "That little green guy and all that food."

"You _are_ that little green guy. Focus."

"Okay, we'll use whiteboard markers. But just remember that if some demon rubs a hole in the trap with their socks, it's your fault."

"Don't care, the hardwood floors are safe."

Dean smiled a little at that. Actually, he was kind of relieved the hardwood floors were safe too. He had no idea about the rest of the house though. Possession tended to be a messy affair. Wallpaper always needed to be replaced after it had been covered in blood and vomit. "You want to drive into town to get supplies?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you'd want to do it."

"Naw, I'm good," he replied, even though he'd lied. He wasn't about to admit that he had no desire to leave Cheryl alone with Emma and presumably whatever demonic entity was waiting for its chance to escape while at the same time wanting to hide because being around Emma made him want to curl up into a ball and scream. He was a Winchester. Winchester's were men. He was going to choose protecting Cheryl over being shit-scared of Emma.

Sam waited for him to change his mind, and when he didn't he went to grab his coat, and Dean handed over the keys.

Cheryl told Sam to hurry back because it was Friday night and pizza night and Dean watched Sam walking down the little pavement from Cheryl's to the Impala and deeply regretted his decision.

{\\SN//}


	6. Chapter 6

{\\SN//}

Since Dean had been back from hell, driving the Impala had become a democratic process. Sometimes Dean was simply too exhausted to get behind the wheel and Sam had no problems with that. His brother may have thought of him as some glorified emo-pansy but Sam could enjoy a classic muscle car as much as the next guy.

If only Dean wasn't so damn concerned about the car all of the time he'd see that Sam was just as good at caring for the car, even if it did involve having to go to a mechanic. The four months he'd had the Impala he'd taken her for a tune up. Made a point of never getting behind the wheel when off his face. Not so much because he didn't want to crash but because he had the bizarre idea that if he died, and went to hell (which he was pretty sure was going to happen) that he'd find Dean and Dean would be really pissed about the car being a write-off. Who wanted to be trapped for all eternity in hell with their pissed off brother?

The town was small but like most towns with a population above twenty thousand, it wasn't above having a Costco and and a Wal-Mart. Large, low-cost chains had served his family well over the years and the giant boxes of macaroni and cheese lasted for weeks at a time since they didn't need to be stored in any particular way. The price of course, was a complete aversion to macaroni and cheese. Not to mention peanut butter, spaghettios and basically, any food that came in a can, a box or tub that had to be carried with two hands.

He pulled into the parking lot, ran the gauntlet, picked up a 10-pound sack of rock salt and wondered why anyone in their right minds would need 10-pounds of rock salt for cooking. He got two sacks, put them in the cart, managed to find whiteboard markers as well (thanks warehouse chain) and thanked God that Dean hadn't been running the errand because they were having a special on beef jerky and Dean wouldn't have lasted fifteen seconds in the presence of that much dehydrated beef on sale.

He paid using cash, something he tried to do as much as possible because cash was untraceable, put everything into the trunk of the Impala and headed back to suburbia, ready to do battle.

{\\SN//}

Dean wondered if the demons in hell realized that playing board games with children was a suitable substitute for physical torture.

They had to pass the time somehow, the time between the pizza arriving, and Sam getting back and Ben was frustrated with the TV, as was Emma, because it seemed there as nothing good on.

Cheryl had pulled out Cranium from a huge pile of boardgames and divided them up into teams. Emma and Ben were a little young to play but Cheryl had figured an adult team member on each team would help things along.

He'd been assigned to help out Emma and he just knew it was deliberate. Not cruel, but sort of forcing Dean to deal with it. Unfortunately the game had quickly become a battle of wills between Dean and Emma, even though they were on the same team.

And now Dean was stuck trying to draw with his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes after trying to draw out the clue, Emma was staring at him like he was pure evil.

"I don't even know what that is," said Emma.

"Well, guess. It's obvious."

"It's a wonky circle with a square!"

"There's more to it than that."

"No, there isn't."

Cheryl checked the timer. "Your time is running out."

"Argh!" Emma's shoulders slumped in frustration.

"Guess," reiterated Dean.

Ben interrupted, having set his concentration on the small white grains of sand in the timer. "It's run out. The end."

Cheryl asked the question that was on their lips. "What is it?"

"The clue was 'bed head'," replied Dean.

'It's not even a face! That's not even a bed. It's a blob with a blob." Emma, in her frustration, simply fell backwards to the floor and stared up at the ceiling.

Cheryl was looking at the artwork with a raised eyebrow, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Uh, did you actually do any drawing as child?"

Dean was indignant at the question. "Yes, I can draw. If the clue had been, 'tank' or 'car', or 'plane' I could have drawn it really, really well. I'm also pretty freaking good at drawing guns."

Emma snickered at the comment. "You're such a boy, Mr. Dean."

Like that explained it all.

"Let's color-in! We can show Mr. Dean how to color Spider-Man," said Ben. Looking highly enthusiastic at the mere thought of art tutoring. He dived for is backpack, extracted a Spider-Man coloring book and a large box of crayons. "It's got tattoos in it. You can stick some on."

"Ack," said Emma. "He's such a baby."

"Emma, it won't hurt anyone to help Ben color," said Cheryl. Trying to keep the peace while it was still there.

"There's only one book," replied Emma.

"Yeah," offered Dean, thinking Emma really knew how to dodge a coloring bullet when she saw one. "I don't think it would work out if wee have to color the same page."

"Ms. Cheryl can cut the pages out and we can color one each. I don't mind. Mommy will always buy me a new book."

Crap, the kid was persistent. No way was he coloring in a _Spider-Man_ book. "I'm not very good at coloring. I think I'd probably mess up the page too much."

Ben gave him a look of utter pity. "That's sad." Then he kind of looked like he was going to cry.

Dean tried sending secret telepathic messages to Cheryl about him not wanting to do this, but of course since he wasn't telepathic, it was useless. He wasn't getting out of this. Emma sighed as if in agreement.

"He always gets what he wants. 'Cause he's the youngest."

Oh, he knew that particular feeling only too well. Cue the endless teeth gritting when his father used those bitterly resented word, "Let Sam have (fill-in-the-blank)" because Sam was crying . Why Sam hadn't grown up with a bigger sense of entitlement he'd never know. Maybe all that demon and ghost chasing had kept it it in check, otherwise his brother would probably be some loan shark salesman by now.

But no, right at this point in time, Ben was going to pitch a fit and to keep the peace and make sure everything went off without any problems, he was going to have to give in.

Ben handed over his coloring book and blunt, paper cutting scissors to Cheryl, who dutifully cut out out a page each and handed them over.

The pizza guy arrived when he was coloring in Spider-Man's unitard with a garish purple and yellow theme. Dean hated Spider-Man. He hated all of the super heroes. He thought most of them had it easy and were slackers. He especially hated Batman. If Dean had inherited a boat load of money from his rich father, he had no doubt that his supernatural fighting abilities would be even more awesome – Batman should try facing down The Joker armed with nothing more than a shotgun and rock salt. He wouldn't last five minutes.

He drew a meticulous set of fangs, Ben reviewed the art work and said that yes, Dean was bad at coloring and Sam arrived shortly thereafter.

{\\SN//}

Dinner was a strange affair because Ben kept looking at Dean like he was the slow child of the class and Emma kept looking at Dean with what appeared to be deep admiration.

Sam could only wonder how the dynamics had changed in the time he'd been gone, which had to have been all of an hour. He bit into the pizza – a supreme with a cheese crust – and wondered when small children went to bed these days.

He excused himself to go power up the laptop and get into some serious research. A phone call to Bobby was also in order. They had to come up with something powerful enough to get that locket off Emma's neck and then they had to be ready for whatever supernatural smack-down was coming their way. He borrowed Cheryl's PC and scanned in a rough sketch he'd made of the sigil, and sent an e-mail through to Bobby, along with the link to the photo.

He did as much research as he could, kept thinking the sigil was a chaos magic precursor but changed his mind, then thought it was part of a witch's offensive arsenal and then gave up.

In the background he could hear the sounds of Emma and Ben chattering away, Cheryl sometimes, Dean not so often. He had no idea what they were doing, but there hadn't been any yelling, so he thought he could leave them to it. Besides, Dean would be keeping them out of the way so he could try and get the research completed.

His cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket.

Bobby didn't waste time with niceties "Sam, you know how I feel about the Internet and e-mail."

"Internet leaves a trail wherever you go," intoned Sam automatically, having heard the same complaint for years.

"Yeah, and unlike you boys, I have a home base. One that can be traced. And I prefer books."

"Did you find anything?"

"Nothing much. Seems like it's a high level binding charm. Originated with a coven in Massachusetts from around 1900. There aren't too many specifics on its uses, just that it binds an entity to the wearer. Why in hell someone would want to bind an entity to a little girl is beyond me."

"You think someone in the family made some kind of deal?"

"Whatever it was, can't have been a good one."

"Dean thinks it's an intergenerational possession."

"Dean said the word 'intergenerational'?"

"No, he said, 'passed down through families'."

Bobby laughed at that. "Haven't heard of anything like that, but there's a first time for everything. And it would make sense. Something is possessing people in a family. Been doing it for a while and then someone gets the bright idea to cure the problem. Maybe they try exorcism and it doesn't work too good."

"Then someone finds out about the coven."

"Figures if anyone can find a way, it's a coven of witches."

"And they figure out a way to at least contain it."

"With the locket," concluded Bobby.

"You realize this is all conjecture? We have no idea what the real reason is."

"But it's as good as any. Look, I don't know why that kid is bound to the locket but we know it's not for the sake of kindness. Break the binding, trap whatever entity is hanging around, salt and burn the contents of the locket."

"You think they would have tried that first."

"Sam, hunter lore isn't known to everyone."

"Yeah. True."

"I've found a spell that will counteract the binding. Sorry to say, that it's a blood spell."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "I hate those."

"I'm not a fan either. So... You boys need my help on this?"

Sam thought a moment. It seemed relatively straight forward from his perspective. As if there was such a thing as a relatively straight forward hunt.

"No. I think we're okay. So far there hasn't been any real signs of activity, apart from the locket."

"Okay. Long as you're sure."

"We're good."

"Call me if you need anything."

"Bobby-" He never got a chance to finish because the line went dead.

Dean wandered into the room, carrying a bowl that was piled high with ice cream, chocolate sauce and what looked like sour worms.

" Apparently we're dealing with a binding spell cooked up by some coven in the 19th century," said Sam.

"So it's a no-brainer. Out of here by tomorrow."

"Bobby said he'd send the spell breaker to us in about fifteen."

"Cool. I was getting bored."

"You're always bored," said Sam. Which Dean was, when he wasn't hunting or driving. Annoyed and bored. Yeah, this was what they were good at of late. Not so much the brotherly interaction, but actually getting a kick out of the heart squeezing surge of panic and worry that came before a case. They were both adrenaline junkies with no way to recover because they had no memories of what it was like _not_ to be scared.

Dean spooned another bite of ice cream into his mouth as a way of distraction, sucked it down. "Cheryl said the kids are getting packed off their bedrooms in an hour. They should be zoned out by ten. If I remember your childhood correctly, kids sleep the sleep of the dead. Once they're out it's going to take a bomb to wake 'em."

It always confused Sam when Dean talked about their childhood solely in terms of Sam. It was like Dean had never even considered that he'd been a child.

Dean seemed to brighten at another thought he'd just had. "Well, we have fifteen minutes until we get the spell, and an hour before the kids go to bed. You want ice cream?"

"We're about to break a binding spell and you want me to eat ice cream?" He was always kind of flabbergasted when Dean got the urge to eat in the face of danger.

"Nothing else to do."

Still he was right about that. At this moment, for fifteen minutes, there was nothing much else to do. He eyed up Dean's bowl again. "Seriously, dude, sour worms with ice cream?"

"Don't knock it until you try it."

{\\SN//}

The spell had come through fifteen minutes later, as promised. In the interim, Dean had watched Sam try a sour worm with ice cream and just about gag. Funniest thing he'd ever seen.

Emma had tried it and declared Dean to be crazy. Takes one to know one, he'd told her. Ben had tried it and declared it great even though his face said he was ready to spit it out. Ben clearly knew a dare when he saw it.

After the sour worm face down, they told Cheryl they had some studying to do and disappeared upstairs to Dean's room to look over the scan. Sam perched himself on the bed, Dean sat beside him, checked out the list on the page and let out a slow whistle.

"Dude, that coven was nuts."

"Yeah," agreed Sam.

The spell breaker needed them to create a pentagram for a trap, in salt, around the floor of the person under the protection spell complete with five sigils. Then the person or persons intent on breaking the spell had to add their own blood to a concoction of hard liquor (whiskey was apparently suitable) mixed in a wooden bowl then add a few drops of the potion to each particular sigil. Finally, whatever was left over was offered to the coven with a specific incantation in some unintelligible ancient tongue (luckily Bobby had provided phonetic pronunciations) before the rest of the concoction was drunk by the spell breakers.

"Man, I really hate the spells where there's drinking of stuff. It always taste gross," said Dean.

"At least it's alcohol."

"And always with the blood. I'm getting a little sick of having to cut myself. I'm beginning to feel like I'm an after school special."

"Any spell breaker is going to be, well, big on the blood."

"Yeah, but witches aren't normally so... Keen."

"We're going to have to presume there was more horse power involved in binding the locket than we thought."

Dean looked annoyed. "Fucking witches. Always with the hinkey spells and body fluids."

Sam shrugged. There wasn't much to say to that.

Dean continued, "Hey, have we got a wooden bowl?"

"Not, that I know of."

"Maybe Cheryl's got one down in the kitchen."

"Whiskey?"

"Uh... I got a spare bottle in my duffel." Dean at least had the decency to look a little shame faced when he said it.

Sam glanced at the digital clock on the beside cabinet. "I guess we should wait until the kids have gone to bed, otherwise they're going to wonder what's going on."

"You think?" Dean was looking at him like he was five kinds of stupid.

"Anything you want to do?"

Dean tried to look vaguely hopeful and at least interested but could only come up with the time worn standard."Cards?"

"No. You cheat."

"What do you want to do then?"

"I have a book I want to finish."

"Oh. Always the college boy. What am I gonna do?"

Sam thrust the laptop into his hands. "Solitaire. Or Mah Jong. No porn. I've only just cleaned up the hard drive from your last attempt."

"Ew, it sounds so dirty when you say it like that," snickered Dean.

"That's because it is," griped Sam, holding off the urge to just punch his brother, but good, in the arm.

"Okay, go read your book Geek Boy. I'll play Solitaire and later, we can actually have some fun."

Sam shook his head. "You're nuts. You know that don't you?"

"Yes, but in a nice way. The lady downstairs said so. I got the stamp on the back of my hand to prove it."

Dean could tell that Sam had no idea what he'd meant by that comment but Sam had the good grace not to press the point. Right now the familiar sensation of the start of a hunt was starting in his stomach like a case of stage-right, only bigger. He knew his brother was feeling it too. That was the reason that they were in a good mood. Because mayhem was about to be unleashed.

They were definitely, definitely, the most fucked up people, ever.

{\\SN//}

Emma climbed into bed. There was no on else in this room. Ms. Cheryl had said that it would be fun if Ben slept in his own room and Emma could sleep in a room by herself, like a big girl. Emma was slightly insulted by the tone – she was nine. She was already practically a grown-up.

She also didn't like the thought of letting Ben out of her sight. She was the eldest, and she was the responsible one. Her job was to protect Ben, no matter what. She told Ms. Cheryl that she wasn't supposed to let Ben be alone, but Ms. Cheryl had told her that it was okay and nothing bad would happen.

For whatever reason, she decided that she could trust Ms. Cheryl and that it was okay, just for this one night. Besides, it would be good not to have to listen to Ben ask for a glass of water or have to tell him a bed time story, or just have to concentrate all the time and figure out whether she was going to be able to relax, or work hard at keeping _him_ locked up. Sometimes he'd be good and give up and she didn't have to fight. When he was being wicked, she had to put exhausting effort into thinking about keeping him in the container of the locket all the time.

Ms. Cheryl was tucking her in and she seemed to like Emma's locket an awful lot. Everyone seemed to be taken with it in this house. She hadn't seen anything like this since Grandma and Mom had put the locket around her neck when she was four.

Not that she could remember all that much. Just a bunch of chanting, everyone dressed up in white and looking really pretty and glowy and her Grandma saying, in a low whisper, "This can never happen again."

Her Mom had sounded kind of sad and said, "I thought it might be over by now." Her Mom was pregnant and going to have Ben any day soon.

"Don't worry. One day we'll find out how to break this. Until then... Our girls are cursed."

Her Mom sounded like she was going to cry and Emma had tried to comfort her by reaching out. Her Mom had picked her up in her arms, kissed her cheek given her a special cake they'd made for her. It was like a little cupcake with patterns in the frosting and it tasted really nice. Just like strawberry pound cake.

Seeing that Dean boy making similar patterns made her remember that day and that ever since, that stupid locket couldn't be removed. She'd tried, and it frustrated her. It wasn't hurting her, but it frustrated her in the way that children got when they couldn't get their own way. Sometimes it frightened her because bad things happened and someone would get hurt. She knew from what her Mom had told her that she had to be careful and not take a dislike to anyone. She wasn't able to help it with Megan's brother. He'd been mean to her.

Her Mom had told her that when Ben was old enough, the locket would simply drop off but until then, she had to help. She was Ben's sister and it was her duty.

She yawned, tired from a long day of meeting new people, and helping with the baking and eating pizza and playing games and watching TV.

"Ms. Cheryl," she started. She always trusted Ms. Cheryl because Ms. Cheryl was their Earth Mother of their Marigold Troop and no way was she allowed to lie.

"Yes, honey?"

"Why do you think my Mom leaves us all the time?"

"I think she's very busy."

"Yeah, she tells us that too," she sighed.

Still, she was too tired to care. In fact, she didn't remember ever being so tired. She snuggled down under the blankets and didn't really wonder why the bed was in the middle of the floor and not tucked up against a wall like most beds were.

{\\SN//}


	7. Chapter 7

{\\SN//}

Dean was on his knees, scrounging around in the kitchen cupboards looking for a suitable container for a spell breaking concoction. Cheryl kept orderly cupboards and the woman had a utensil and bowl for every occasion.

"Hey, I think I found something!" It was Sam, who'd been assigned to look in the pantry. He emerged, holding a spectacular wooden bowl that included forks. It was just what they were looking for. "Maple," announced Sam after studying it some more.

"Terrific. Bring it over here and we can start mixing."

"Ahem."

Dean turned around and saw Cheryl standing in the room. With her arms crossed.

"What do you think you're doing with my good salad bowl?"

"Gotta mix us up some potion." Dean didn't bother to explain much more, just took the bowl from Sam. "Sam, go up to my room and grab my knife. Decide where you want me to stick you."

"Not on the hand. I can't type properly after you've sliced me," huffed Sam.

"That's not all you can't do," said Dean, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"You can talk, _jerk-off_."

"Oh, good one, Sammy. I feel really cut-down to size by your stinging double-entendre retort."

"Seriously, Dean. Who's been feeding you the dictionary? You're using big words. Even if they're not the right words."

"You know, I can actually read without moving my lips."

Cheryl held up her hands in despair. "Okay, enough! Will someone explain to me why my kitchen utensils have become vital to this job?"

Sam grabbed his laptop from the kitchen table, showed her the spell. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's also sat on the table.

Cheryl skim read the list of ingredients. "Great. Remind me to throw out the mixing bowl afterwards. As to the blood - how were you planning to get it?"

"We use a knife and cut a finger or across the palm," offered Sam.

She rolled her eyes towards the Heavens. "Had your tetanus boosters lately?"

Sam and Dean nodded simultaneously. "Two years ago," said Sam.

"No one is slicing anyone open with a knife that's been God knows where," she continued. "How much do you need?"

Sam thought a moment. "We tend to guesstimate, I mean the spells usually don't need it to be in pints-"

"-Unless it's demonic," interrupted Dean.

"About this much?" Sam mimed out a small puddle.

Cheryl frowned a little and said, "Looks like maybe a couple of milliliters. Okay, wait here, I'm going to get my test kit and draw some blood from both of you. Hygienically."

Dean pulled a face. "I hate needles. Can't we just use a knife?"

"No! There will be no sticking of anyone with a knife! Now, wait here."

Cheryl headed at a fast pack towards her surgery at the back of the house.

Dean watched her go, shook his head. He really liked her, thought in some ways it felt like a school boy crush, but it wasn't and he found himself idly wondering whether she would like some roses to say thanks for all the assistance.

"She totally told us off," he said admiringly.

"You have a thing for bossy older women?"

"No! Dude. No, she's just..." He stopped, shrugged. "You know."

"Yeah, actually I do."

And it seemed by the way Sam was smiling as he watched her, that he did understand whatever it was that they were both going through.

Oh. Now it felt all weird and gross.

He broke his wandering brain away from strange thoughts of roses and chocolates and a gift card with bunnies on them and went back to the task at hand. Which was finding a suitable stirring utensil. He guessed one of the salad forks would do in a pinch.

He was leaning against the counter when Cheryl came back with a plastic tray that was holding things he didn't really want to think about. What was so wrong with the knife idea?

"Who's first?" She sounded cheerful in the way that pushy nurses at hospitals always sounded cheerful. All positive and encouraging right before something painful or embarrassing happened.

Dean pointed at Sam. "Him."

Sam pursed his mouth, did his bitch face thing. "You are going to pay for this."

Cheryl just gave them both a long suffering sigh. "Roll up a shirt sleeve and let me see if you've got any good veins."

Sam did as he was told, rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. She stared at the crook of his elbow for a minute, palpitated it slightly. "That's a respectably big vein there. Good."

"Hear that, Sam. Respectably big. Probably better than a small one. You should be happy." Dean was trying to keep a straight face.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

Cheryl put a tourniquet on, instructed Sam to open and close his hand a few times, swabbed the skin with an alcohol wipe and then she expertly slid in the needle attached to the vacuum tube. Then she slipped a plastic capped test tube onto the other end. She released the tourniquet and blood began gushing into the tube, filling rapidly.

"I'll do a second tube, just to be safe." She popped the tube out, replaced it with a second one. It filled as rapidly as the last one. She took the tube out, placed it on the bench with the second one, and then withdrew the needle, placing a small wad of cotton on the arm, with a strip of tape.

"Press down on that for a moment while I take care of your brother."

Dean pulled a face, rolled up his sleeve. He really didn't like this.

"Don't worry, Dean. She was very gentle. You'll hardly feel a thing." It was Sam's turn to rag on his brother.

"Be quiet. You know what needles do to me."

Cheryl put the tourniquet on, got him to make a fist and release his fingers. She pushed her fingers into his forearm, looking around for something.

"Hmmm... The veins in this arm aren't exactly cooperative. Let me look at your left arm."

Dean stuck his left arm out for inspection.

"Your left arm looks better. Let's do that."

She swapped the tourniquet over, got him to repeat the procedure, felt around on his forearm until she hit pay dirt. Wiped his arm with an alcohol swipe and then slid the needle into his arm. He screwed his eyes shut because he just couldn't look at the next bit.

"Ow!"

"Baby," said Sam.

"Did that hurt?" Cheryl seemed surprised.

"Sorry. Automatic reaction."

"Just how many bad experiences have you had?" She was asking in that neutral way that she did, but he didn't really want to answer about all the times he'd gritted his teeth through bad blood draws. Sam didn't seem to have the same problem.

"Remember when they sent that new technician to draw blood when you were seventeen? She kept sticking you and moving the needle around for like, half an hour. You started yelling at her and Dad thought you were being attacked. He ran in ready to deck someone and just finds this tiny slip of a girl being screamed at. It was pretty funny."

"Funny for you. Dad made me sit still while that little bitch of a girl drilled my arm for blood for another five minutes. It looked like someone had smacked it around with a baseball bat. Then she gave up and tried this arm instead."

Cheryl changed over the tube while no one was paying attention. "It sounds like she should have been supervised, or had the good sense to call for some assistance when she couldn't find a vein in the first two minutes."

Sam continued, getting into the swing of things. "What about that time they drew about six tubes of blood and then the guy tripped and dropped everything? Three tubes cracked and they had to do it again."

Cheryl rolled her eyes, took out the needle, put a small amount of cotton on his arm, taped it up. "What happens now?"

"We go upstairs, mark out the pentagram and sigils, then apply the potion, say the spell and hey, presto, entity free," said Dean.

"_Hey, presto_?"

"Sam, stop laughing at everything I say, or I'm gonna kick your ass from here, all the way over to Bobby's."

Cheryl tried to be the adult one in the conversation. "The tubes contain an anti-coagulant, so they'll be fine. Let's go upstairs."

"Okay, just let me grab the whiteboard markers on the way past my room," said Sam.

"Those had better not screw up my hardwood floors," said Cheryl.

"They won't," said Dean. And Sam. Together.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl cracked the door and they entered. Cheryl was carrying the salad bowl, the tubes of blood rolling around gently in the bottom, the whiteboard markers there too. Dean carried the Jack Daniels in one hand and a bag of salt in the other, while Sam had the laptop bag slung over his shoulder and he carried the other bag of salt. They all walked quietly into the room, Dean and Sam putting the salt down. Emma was curled under the blanket and didn't stir.

"Is she going to wake up?" Sam was slightly dubious as Cheryl's confidence that Emma would remain asleep for the entire event.

"No. I put a tiny amount of Valium in her orange juice," replied Cheryl.

Sam looked appalled. "You drugged a little kid?"

"I sedated her. Lightly. So keep your voice down. She's drowsy enough to keep sleeping but not so drowsy that shouting won't wake her."

Dean pulled a face but didn't say anything, or back up Sam on his personal opinion on the wrongness of sedating children, even if they were possessed. Instead, he set the bottle on the floor, gestured to Cheryl for the markers.

"Sam," Dean whispered. "Show me that pattern I need to mark out."

Sam got the laptop out of the bag, opened up the lid. It powered itself back up from its hibernation cycle, back to the e-mail and scan that Bobby had sent.

"Okay, let's mark this sucker out."

Sam watched his brother study the scan and then eye the floorboards, and carefully begin to draw the pentagram and sigils out in sections. As always with Dean they were a damn near perfect scale up of the picture in the scan. It was one of those oddities about his brother that seemed to point towards hidden talents that had either been forgotten or ignored except when on a job. The sort of skills an architect would need, or even an artist. Sam, of course, always kept these observations to himself because to observe them out loud seemed to set Dean's teeth on edge. Later it would dawn on Sam, as it always did, that when he spoke of these things, it reminded his brother of a different life and possibilities squandered.

As Dean marked out the floor, down on hands and knees, busily sketching with whiteboard marker, Sam followed, tracing over the lines with the salt.

It took about 20-minutes but at the end of their session, the results looked spectacular. Thankfully Emma remained dutifully asleep, even when Dean had accidentally bumped into one of the legs on the bed.

They just had a couple of steps to complete.

Sam set the bowl on a chair by the wall, Dean emptied in the bottle of whiskey. He nodded to Cheryl, who cracked the seals on the test tubes and poured in the blood. Dean gave it a brief stir with the wooden salad fork then carefully pouring a little on each sigil in the pentagram.

With that part completed, Sam dutifully reeled off the long and strange spell, paying careful attention to the pronunciations before passing off the last half of the spell to Dean to chant.

As he watched Dean conclude, he felt himself tense up, waiting for it to start. The signs that things were about to happen. Bad things. Good things. Something. But as yet the entire room remained silent and quiet, except for their breathing.

Dean must have been having the same thought. He caught his brother's eye. "Okay, we drink that potion and maybe it gets unleashed after that."

Sam nodded, closed his eyes, and tried not to gag as he gulped down mouthfuls of the mixture. He should be used to drinking blood by now but Dean wasn't a demon and Dean's blood mixed with alcohol didn't taste good at all. Not that demon's blood tasted good, but it did taste different. He almost immediately felt good after drinking it. No such luck with this brew.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his shirt sleeve, passed the bowl to Dean. Dean wrinkled his nose, but took the bowl.

"I hate this part," said Dean. Then he took a couple of quick swigs. Seemed surprised by something. "This tastes wrong."

"Like you're some kind of connoisseur," said Sam. He sounded tense. He wondered if Dean had noticed.

"Blood is blood. It's got a slightly different taste. I dunno..."

Cheryl saved his ass by interjecting a little science into the conversation. "It's probably the alcohol. It will have changed the taste."

Dean nodded at that, seemed to have forgotten about it as he waited. And waited. He glanced at his watch. Nothing.

"Well, so much for the scary light show."

Cheryl moved towards the still sleeping form of Emma. "Do we try and take the locket off?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." Then he moved to the sleeping girl, but seemed to hesitate, glancing back at Sam.

"Hey, Sam, you wanna do the honors here?"

He did as he was asked, leaned over the little girl, worried she might wake up and was careful to try not to fumble with the chain. He managed to undo the small catch and then pulled back, relieved when the locket simply came away like it was any other piece of ordinary jewelery.

"That was..." He paused.

"Too easy?" Dean finished for him.

"Yeah. Now what do we do?"

"We do a salt and burn on whatever is in that locket, tell her that it got stolen or lost or something. Clean up the mess. Like I said we should do, at the start."

Cheryl nodded, pulled the blankets from Emma. "I'll shift her to Ben's room. I don't want her waking up while you two are sweeping up salt and blood from the floor. By the way, the broom is downstairs."

She picked up the little girl easily, Emma not stirring and walked out of the room, down the hallway.

Sam went to fetch the broom and a dust pan. He also got some garbage bags. They cleaned up. Nothing happened.

Neither brother knew whether to be relieved or disappointed.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl's fireplace was gas and didn't work and she didn't have a wooden stove, so the salt and burn had to be performed outside. They inspected the locket. Gold, with an ivory insert scroll work. Sam popped the small catch and inside there was a neatly braided lock of hair secured inside with a small dollop of gold.

"Bingo," said Dean.

They made their way down to the back of the garden, to the tool shed. Cheryl opened it up and dragged out the barbecue. The neighbors would think they were nuts but at least they would think that the three of them were collectively drunk nuts, as opposed to people trying to destroy a ghost by burning their mortal remains on a Friday night.

Dean tossed briquettes onto the small barbecue. Sam allowed himself to be hugely relieved that this particular exercise in supernatural extermination didn't involve digging up any graves. That part of their job was sufficiently gross enough that he still couldn't get used to it. It was down to timing, temperature, soil conditions and just how much formaldehyde an undertaker used. Consequently it was anyone's guess on the condition of the coffin's occupant when they cracked open a grave. They both breathed a sigh of relief every time they encountered skeletal remains. They held their breath when they encountered putrefaction.

After one particularly bad exhumation, Sam had remarked to Dean, "Dude, did you know cadaverine is poisonous? I read about it on Wikipedia."

"I don't even know what that is."

"Wikipedia or cadaverine?"

"Hah, funny. Cadaverine."

"It's one of the molecule that causes the stench."

"It's poisonous?"

"Yeah. To rats."

"Then remind me not to bring any rats on our next job."

Sam snickered at the lame joke because he was desperate for any kind of laugh after what he'd seen.

Dean was liberally spraying lighter fluid onto the briquettes. He made to toss the locket onto the barbecue but Cheryl stopped him.

"I've been thinking," she said. "Can't you just destroy the hair? That way we could put the locket back on and she'd be none the wiser."

Dean frowned, stopped throwing around the lighter fluid. "I dunno. We've never actually done that before. Sammy?"

"He's right. Usually we burn it all. Just to be safe."

"Oh. Okay. I'll think of a good excuse."

Dean tossed the locket onto the pile, threw some salt around and chucked a match at the pile. The briquettes caught fire in spectacular blaze and the locket was hidden by the flames.

Cheryl gazed at the flames. "Is that it?"

"I guess so," replied Dean.

"It seems a bit anti-climatic."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Yeah but, I guess that's a good thing. Definitely low level crap. About time we got a job that was easy."

"I'm with you on that," agreed Sam. It felt incredibly satisfying to have pulled off a job where they hadn't been stomped, beaten, hit, cut, or traumatized. The last time that had happened they'd banished some leprechaun creature and spent the entire job laughing. Much to the leprechaun's chagrin.

"What are we going to tell Emma?" Cheryl asked.

Dean considered the blazing contents of the barbecue for a moment. "Okay. Maybe it will work. After the flames died down, maybe we can clean-up the locket and give it back. Tell her it fell off or something and we found it out here in the garden."

Cheryl raised an eyebrow, "She's not that dumb."

Dean returned her raised eyebrow with one of his own. "Don't look at us, we just make the bad guys go away. We're usually gone before the questions start."

They went back inside.

{\\SN//}

Dean had crashed into his bed at around midnight and he couldn't sleep. He was wired from the exorcism, or whatever the hell it was, and he was wired because he was waiting on all-hell-to-break loose and that hadn't happened either. He'd taken the diclofenac before going to bed, and his back was great, and he wasn't listening to his joints protest when he was prone or when he was upright. He even felt a tiny bit happy, and calm, except for the whole not-being-able-to-sleep thing. Consequently he hadn't bothered with the prazosin. Seemed pointless taking it if he wasn't going to sleep anyway.

He wondered if Cheryl could give him some Valium to take the rest of the edge off and he could crash and sleep like Emma had been sleeping. Totally and utterly oblivious.

If he knew Sam well enough, he thought Sam would be wide awake too but something stopped him from wandering across the hallway to talk to him.

Nothing for it. It was time for a snack and TV. He could have watched the TV in his room, but there were no snacks in his room. Besides, the TV in the living room was bigger and the thought of falling asleep in front of the TV was comforting. He'd fallen asleep in front of a TV more times than he cared to remember, and his father had made a habit of it. So if nothing else, he could sleep sitting up, lying down and although he had never tried it, he could probably sleep upside down.

He rolled over, tried closing his eyes and gave it one more try. But his brain wouldn't turn off as it rampaged around with thoughts of evil little girls, Spider-Man, cookies, cupcakes, and the Impala needing the air filter changed.

"Fuck it," he said. He sat up, flipped the covers back, got out of bed. He pulled on his jeans, pulled on his t-shirt, threw on a shirt over it, tucked his M1911 into the waistband and wandered down to the hallway, shuffling downstairs in his bare feet.

He wandered into the kitchen, turned on a light. Inhaled at the smell of baking and desserts and chili and pizza combining together to make its own heady perfume. It made him think that maybe his real home, the one he barely remembered as a four-year-old, smelt like this. Like people lived there and loved each other and didn't fight all the time.

The fridge seemed to be the place to start. He opened it up, the light illuminating the interior and the goodies that lay within. There was some cold pizza, and that was as good as just about anything as far as Dean was concerned, as long as it was heated up in the correct way.

In a pinch, it was a microwave, but correctly done it was a gentle warming in a fry pan. He went straight for the cupboard that held all of the pots and pans. Bent down to take one out.

When he straightened up again and turned around, he found himself sharing the kitchen with a tall man. A man with a beard and mustache, dressed in 19th century clothing.

The man stared at him. Dean stared back. The man was definitely a ghost, or spirit, although not a very vengeful looking one, or scary. Just seemed to be standing there, a small smile on his face, like he'd just popped in to pay his respects.

He should have expected this. 'Cause you just didn't go and do a spell and then absolutely nothing happened and everyone lived happily ever after. That's not how it worked. Never how it worked. It's just that he didn't expect the shit to hit the fan when he was about to reheat pizza in a frying pan.

He was just about to react and hit the guy with the frying pan, and hope like crazy that the pan happened to be iron when the formerly non-threatening guy seemed to have a change of heart. The temperature dropped, and the mood in the room gave way to something dark. Dark and sick.

"A son should obey," pronounced the ghost and then Dean found himself lifted and thrown backwards to the floor to the sounds of something in his back creaking. Or maybe it was snapping. Either way, it hurt like a bitch.

The ghost moved towards him, Dean tried moving away from him and going for the gun at the same time. Difficult with the pain but he could do it, because he'd become adept at ignoring pain through decades of hunting. He moved his feet, moved his legs, yeah he was still mobile. That had to be a good sign at least. With that thought, he started to propel himself backwards, trying to get some traction, and aiming the gun.

Couldn't move fast enough when it came to a ghost. The man reached down, grasped him by the shirt, lifted Dean easily to his feet, pulled the gun from his grasp just as he hit the trigger. The shot went wide, the bullet buried itself in one of Cheryl's kitchen cabinets.

"You are a wicked son. An abomination. You need to learn."

A hand went to the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine, seeming to suck the warmth out of his body. It was the same sort of hand used by his father on occasions, as a warning, but this wasn't the same. The hand was tighter, the fingers like claws on his skin.

He tried twisting from the hand but the darkness and sickness washed over him and his body was paralyzed by the familiar. He knew this feeling, he recognized it from hell. From the souls on the rack. The stench that pervaded the place, oozed its way into every corner, mixed with sulfur and blood. The unbearable sensation of evil. The wrongness of those souls, who had been banished to hell for good reason.

Dean opened his mouth to yell for help, any help at all, but he didn't even get that far. The ghost smiled at him, and Dean's vision blurred and then they weren't in the kitchen.

{\\SN//}

_Wake up, Sam. You've got a job to do._

His father was standing in a clearing in the woods. On a rock. Sam didn't know how or why they had wound up here, but there was Dad. Standing on a boulder, his black coat wrapped around him, surrounded on all sides by tall pine trees.

Sam was down on the ground, stared up at him like he'd done as a child.

He wanted to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. He wanted to tell his father that he was sorry. Sam wanted to make amends, say he understood the need to make the hurting stop and the only way to do it was with revenge. Revenge consumed everything. It consumed grief. It consumed guilt. It consumed worry and it consumed doubt. It consumed _you_.

His father was looking towards the tree line, looking and not finding.

_Sam. Go get your brother. He needs you._

He doesn't need me, Dad. He doesn't. Dean doesn't need anyone.

_Dean needs more than he's willing to admit. Go get your brother, Sam. Take your brother and run. Don't look back._

There was a noise, like a gun shot and both Sam and his father looked around for the source of the sound. Sam was about to say that it seemed strange that his father was telling him to run but right about then he abruptly woke up.

He could feel it then. The tendrils wrapping around his spine, his own private little demonic alarm.

He sat up, quickly got out of bed, headed for Dean's room. Already knew that he'd find the room empty. Also knew as he checked the bathroom, and checked downstairs that he wouldn't find him.

What he did find was Dean's Colt on the floor of the kitchen.

Crap. Okay. So it had started. But he had no idea what _it_ actually was. 

_{\\SN//}_


	8. Chapter 8

{\\SN//}

Emma woke up in a different bedroom, slightly groggy. Her hand went automatically to the locket around her neck. The locket that was no longer there.

She started screaming.

{\\SN//}

Dean didn't know where he was. He was still in the house, that much he had figured out. But where, was a mystery.

The room looked like an attic. Preserved and pickled with a variety of trunks and glass jars and hats, and suitcases, and dolls with plaster heads and a general level of spookiness that seemed to accompany locked up rooms.

The man, his face still stuck with that patronizing smile, the desire for control and violence emanating off him in surges, seemed stunningly confident in his ability to keep Dean where he was.

"Do you understand why you are here?"

Dean was in pain. Hunched over kind of pain. The sort of pain he'd experienced more times in his so-called career as a hunter than he cared to consider. But it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever had and it probably wouldn't be the last pain he'd ever have. No matter how much pain he was in, he sure as hell wasn't indulging some ghost by answering it's questions. Instead he managed to growl out, "Fuck off."

The man, tall and overbearing, strode forward. Smacked him hard across the face, hard enough to split his lip again and draw blood. "I asked you a simple question. Treat your elder and superior with respect."

Dean shook his head, his ears ringing. "You're not my superior and since you're dead, technically you're not my elder either."

That earned him another smack to the head.

The man said,"The first born son is always the most difficult. They need to be whipped the hardest and the most often. That is why you are here."

Really, he couldn't fathom why this shit kept happening to him. Why did everyone with an ax to grind take an instant dislike to Dean Winchester?

"Shove it, you piece of crap." He didn't have to say it, he really didn't but there was nothing dignified about being lectured to by a ghost.

It was only natural that the guy would get even more pissed off. "I will not stand for insolence."

"You must be a riot at parties."

The ghost - that guy - Dean was now going to call him That Guy in his head, because he was like the anti Marlo Thomas. And yeah, he'd seen that show on the TV, late at night. Marlo Thomas in the 1960s was cute. That Guy was just angry, angry, angry.

"I have a job in the family. My job is to discipline the boys so that they become men. I was going to start with Benjamin but then Emma inadvertently pointed you out to me. I realized that you were desperately in need of my help."

He felt himself spin around, wrenching his back and a yell of pain from his mouth and then he was propelled to his knees. That Guy walked slowly, and some how seemed to have acquired a razor strop.

He felt panic curling up from his stomach and invading his chest. He gulped. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He didn't sign on for this. All he wanted to do was go and see that dumb 28-foot high pheasant. Why'd everything have to be so stupidly hard?

That Guy halted in front of him, raised his hand, let Dean get a good view of the strip of leather, one end wound around his hand.

"Your father didn't discipline you enough."

"You obviously never met my father. We got disciplined plenty."

"Not in a way that would make a lasting impression. If he had disciplined you more, you would have never questioned him, not even once. He told you what to do about your brother. You chose to ignore him."

Dean gasped. "Get out of my head you fuck."

"Your father was specific. If Sam turned, you were to kill him."

"He hasn't turned! Not yet. I won't let him."

"Why? Because you have the power to undo these things? To unmake the demon in your brother?"

Dean tried to get his panic under control. He did that too easily now. Started to panic in a hunt when the situation got a little too close to what he experienced down in the pit. A straight out fight he didn't have an problems with. This stuff - no. He was able to half ignore the physical pain from his back, but his increasing panic was harder to control.

That Guy lazily flicked the strop, letting it wave through the air. "I think your father would be terribly disappointed in you and because he loved you, he would have wanted to correct such a mistake in your thinking. Much like I had to correct my own son."

"Did that include killing him?"

The ghost actually looked slightly saddened by Dean's suggestion. "Michael? Yes. Regrettable but necessary. Although it is a better thing to be dead man with honor than to live as a weak coward. Besides, since they bound me, I have so few opportunities to discipline as I want. I am restrained from my true calling, but at times I can at least make my presence known."

Fucking ghost logic. It really did suck. "You don't know anything about my father. He wouldn't do this. No good father would."

"Really? In those little tucked up corners of your mind, the little dank corners you don't like to go, they tell me a different story."

Alistair used to do this to him. As if physically tearing him to pieces wasn't enough. Demons knew that although suffering physically was bad, the suffering produced by someone's psyche was so much more satisfying.

"All those times when you tried so hard to be good, and quiet so your father did not get upset. But he was upset so easily. Especially when he was drunk."

"_Shut up_. Seriously, just shut up."

"You were a loyal brother though. You made sure Samuel was shielded. Samuel was always in his room. Although you suspect that Samuel heard."

That Guy leaned down closer so he could look Dean straight in the eye, and Dean could only avert his gaze trying to look anywhere but at a ghost that was pulling at the same scars that Alistair liked to open.

"Your father went to hell as part of a deal, although rumor has it that in many ways he perhaps deserved his fate. His promotion to the upper levels is in large part due to his disposal of Azazel."

"Who _are_ you?"

"I have explained. You father did a poor job of raising you. If he had raised you as a man, you would not be so weak. So frightened. I am going to correct that problem. If he had kept you in line from the start, he would not have had to lose control."

"You are one fucked up son of a bitch."

"You would not be the first one to remark on this," said That Guy.

The ghost leaned closer, pulled a knife from a jacket pocket and Dean was trying not to over breathe because then he'd hyperventilate and he really didn't need that. Not right now. But his breathing was starting to speed up and he couldn't help himself.

He felt the knife press against his shirt front, rip down, the buttons flying, rip down his sleeves, cutting him a little, enough to make him suck in breath.

His shirt was gone, on the floor. The knife took to his t-shirt and Dean closed his eyes. Never really liked to look at this part because the t-shirt was going, going, gone and there was nothing between him and that blade. Didn't need to see his blood start flowing, rivulets pooling in his navel and sliding around his waist and drip on the floor. Didn't need to entertain anything else either. Did it count as being an optimist if he was grateful that his jeans were still on?

A hand twisted in his hair, which sucked because he specifically kept his hair short to prevent it getting snarled, tangled or otherwise yanked on by the wispy hands of the undead.

"Jesus, quit it you grabby fucker," he hissed. Then he tried hitting the ghost again, just to have something to fight against but of course that was useless against the non-corporeal. Didn't stop him from trying though.

"Open your eyes," hissed That Guy.

"No." Yeah, he would keep them firmly closed for the duration thanks. Sort of like being a kid, hiding under his blankets, safe and sound in that little bubble of warmth and dark.

"You are an extremely disobedient child."

"You don't know the half of it."

"I will have to punish you."

"Oh, like you're scaring me. News flash; I was in hell. For forty years. You're not even third rate. You don't even count."

That Guy laughed and something smacked him soundly across his arm, hard and unyielding and startled him into suddenly doing as he was told. Dean assumed that for all his snappy comebacks, the ghost could pretty much smell Dean's fear oozing out of his pores.

Then That Guy raised his arm high in the air, Dean found himself flipped face forward into the floor. Wood pressed into his cheeks, dust inhaled through his nose, his arms trying to push himself upright and there was a unbearable weight holding him down that he couldn't over power.

He felt the air move as the strop whipped down and then it landed on his bare back and he tried hard to not make a sound because he had to be quiet. Just. Stay. Quiet. He wouldn't make a sound, because it would anger That Guy even further and he wouldn't give him the damn satisfaction any fucking way.

But it kept landing on him, his back, his butt, his thighs and it hurt and he should be used to hurting. Why couldn't people stop being angry at him all the time? He started crying and after he'd been hit too many times to remember, the strop slicing at him, he began wailing.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl had rushed into Emma's bedroom as soon as she'd started screaming. Ben was awake and had climbed onto Emma's bed, deeply concerned. Sam had barreled his way into the bedroom about thirty seconds later.

"Emma, honey, it's okay," she said in a calm tone.

"My locket. My locket is gone!" Emma had moved past screaming and was crying uncontrollably.

"Honey, it's okay. We knew it hurt you, so Sam and Dean made sure it was gone." Nothing for it but the truth.

Emma's eyes went wide at the news. "No. You shouldn't have done it."

Sam came over to her, bent down to join Cheryl at Emma's eye line. "It was very bad. We figured out how to remove it and we burnt it. It won't hurt you any more."

"No!" Emma tried to stop crying. She looked despairingly at both of them. "You've let him go. He was bound to me, it kept him quiet and I was his keeper. You've let him go."

Before she could explain more, the house echoed with the cries of a man. Cries that Sam knew instantly. His whole body went taut in dismay. His head turned towards the noise – above them. In the ceiling.

"Dean!"

Cheryl put a hand out to stop him rushing off. Put another hand on Emma's shoulder. They both looked distressed, and Ben out of the circle of immediate concern looked lost.

"Let's just keep calm here," said Cheryl. The one important they taught you in medical school and the Army was it was better to pause and rationally assess the situation before charging off to try and fix things.

There was another cry. Horrified, everyone looked up at the ceiling.

Sam swallowed hard before speaking. His voice was soft. "Do you have an attic?"

"Yes, but I haven't done much with it. Didn't need the space, so I left it the way it was until I got around to cleaning it out."

"Can you show me how to get up there?"

Sam was getting to his feet, and Cheryl stood with him, both hands on his arm, even though she was about as effective a restraint as a kitten. He was determined to go, she leaned back on him, tried to get him to slow down.

"Sure, but first, just wait. Just wait! We need to know what we're dealing with. You just can't charge in there. You don't know what you're dealing with."

Sam's voice was a snarl when he answered. "I know exactly what I'm dealing with and I know exactly what to do."

Emma sniffed, seemed to pull herself together. "You don't know anything Mr. Sam. Calvin Lowry is a bad man. He likes hurting boys, likes hurting them lots."

Cheryl didn't like where the conversation was headed, but she needed the details and she needed Sam to hear them. They needed to know what they were up against. She was also sure that they could use Bobby Springer ASAP.

"I'm sorry, sweet heart. I didn't quite understand what you said. Can you explain it to me?"

Emma wiped at her nose, her eyes starting to brim with tears again. Cheryl grabbed some tissues from the bathroom, headed back, helped the little girl blow her nose.

"Mom told me about Calvin Lowry, so that I knew why I had to wear the locket."

Ben got out of bed, climbed up to sit against her sister. He put her head on her sister's shoulder, put a small arm around her. "It'll be okay, Emma."

"Go on, Emma. Tell us about Calvin Lowry."

"Calvin Lowry was my great, great, great, ..." She paused, trying to work out how many times she had to say the word 'great' to get the order right. "Anyway, he was a relative from a long time ago. Someone's Daddy. But he was mean. He liked to hurt his son because he had to be a man. He hurt his son Michael all the time. He said it was for his own good, because he was... Emma paused, searching for the right word. "Willful. Sons are always willful and needs to set an example for the other children. He hurt him bad, made him cry all the time. Mary Anne was his wife, and she was sad but she couldn't do nothing 'cause that's just the way it was back then. My mom says that Calvin liked to hang around in places that he shouldn't and hurt other men too. I don't understand why they liked it though."

Cheryl chose to ignore her last remark and not comment but she did shoot Sam a knowing glance.

"And then what happened," asked Sam. His voice quiet.

"Calvin Lowry was beating Michael one day because he hadn't finished his chores and Michael was screaming. Then he hurt Michael so bad, he killed him. Mary Anne didn't do anything right away. She waited and she got madder and madder. Then one day she got one of those old fashioned irons, the heavy ones you heat on a stove, and she took it and smashed Mr. Lowry's brains out."

"They splattered all over the floor," add Ben helpfully. "But Mrs. Lowry knew what to do. She buried him in the basement and cleaned up all the blood."

"But Mr. Lowry wouldn't leave them alone after he died. He came back. He would taunt Mary Anne. Then one of her daughters married and she was going to have a baby boy. Mr. Lowry said he knew what to do. Make the boy into a man. She didn't want her family to suffer but Calvin Lowry swore he would haunt the Lowry boy children _forever_." She managed to put as much dramatic emphasis onto the word as she could. "So Mary Anne went and asked some people and they said they knew how to make sure Mr. Lowry stopped hurting her grandsons. He wouldn't leave – he was too powerful, but they would bind him to a girl in the family so that he was with them forever. Sometimes he's real hard to control but that's my job – to make sure he never gets away 'cause he could hurt someone bad."

She looked at them both, her expression suddenly older than nine-years. "That's my job. I gotta protect the family. And when I have kids, that'll be their job. So, you have to give the locket back."

She hung her head, Ben burrowed into her, trying to give his big sister some comfort in her misery.

There was another echoing scream raining from the ceiling, coating them all in desperation and terror.

"You can't go up there, 'cause nothing can stop Calvin Lowry," said Emma.

"Just watch me," said Sam.

_{\\SN//}_

Dean has grown used to pain in hell, used to pain on Earth and he knew all of the signs. The body could grow accustomed to it, the mind could bypass it a short while. There was a point when the brain attempted to fence off the pain in a desperate attempt at protecting sanity.

He was kind of reaching the point already. Somewhere in the pain, Dean had called on a familiar trick he'd learned in his thirty years in hell. It didn't work all the time, but after a while the pain could get like a high strung one pitched note. With no spikes of intensity, he could work with it in small ways, concentrate on other things. Go elsewhere else to try and search for happier times. There wasn't much there, if he was honest with himself, but small happinesses were just as good as the large ones.

Sam's birthday. He'd turned seven and that made Dean all of eleven. An ice-cream cake, and a bag of plastic soldiers that Dean has managed to scrounge at a 99c store. For some reason they had both thought it was a good idea to decorate the cake with the soldiers and although their father had seemed non-plussed at plastic soldiers using a cake as captured territory, he'd let them play. Dean remembered feeling he was too grown-up to really being playing with that sort of crap, but he remembered being happy just mucking around. The cake got a little destroyed but they ate it anyway. That had been cool. Just being kids.

The pain stopped. Never any good, because it broke his concentration. His back was fire, his thighs were fire. He'd been beaten over every inch of his body.

"Young man, I know what you are doing. You cannot escape and I will not let you."

Yeah, Alistair had tweaked to that trick quick enough. Dean had persisted though, and Alistair's favorite method of breaking Dean's induced trance was to stop whatever he was doing. The lack of sensation was enough to bounce him back to awareness.

That Guy seemed to have cottoned on even faster than Alistair. Dean got a view of pointed boots and spats as the ghost walked past his face.

His entire body hurt and ached, and it was familiar and awful and there was a piece of plaster or something under his cheek that was digging into him in a concentrated irritation and his neck had been in this position forever. His back was still yelling for attention with all the other attention seeking parts of his body.

Flesh, whether real or the imagined type in hell was a weakness. It betrayed him with regularity. It got beat up, and pummeled and man, if he could just float around all day, away from his body that would be his perfect wish as far as he was concerned. His best dreams were the ones where he was flying around in the blue sky and it just seemed to be 'him' with none of the baggage of his dead weight meat.

"You may move," said the ghost.

"Yeah, I might have to pass on that," he managed to whisper out.

"I said _move._"

And he didn't want to, cause he knew it was gonna hurt but he had to, because well, he's hurt and he had to relieve the pain coursing through his neck. He got his arms bent back from their outstretched position even though the circulation was nearly gone, and puts his palms on the floor to push up.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck on a stick. _

His shoulders hardly worked, bruised and battered but he pushed to try and sit up. Managed to struggle onto his knees, could hardly do as the ghost demanded. He got a look at the guy's face. Self satisfied, and smug. Got another look at a bulge in the crotch area of the Edwardian buttoned up trousers and had his fears confirmed as to what made That Guy feel happy.

Great, nothing like a ghost with a sadomasochistic kink.

Dean rocked back, tried to get to his feet, but found himself pushed in a different direction, kicked back onto his.. _back_.

He screamed from the pain of every bruise and welt on his body meeting the hardwood planks that Cheryl had yet to sand and varnish.

"So it goes," said a Tralfamadore. The Tralfamadore he was imagining and wished would take him to their home planet like Billy Pilgrim, because being stuck in a zoo on another planet with a porn actress wasn't such a bad way to die.

"Damn straight," said Dean.

{\\SN//}

Sam had gone out to the Impala, popped the trunk, fetched the extra shotgun, the extra rounds, the clip with the silver bullets, shoved Dean's M1911 down the waistband of his jeans, and a gallon jug of holy water under his arm.

The Winchesters may have their differences but he was damned if someone was going to hurt Dean. The Winchesters could yell at each other, insult each other, walk out on each other, and lie to each other, but God help anyone outside the family if you so much as touched one of them.

It was a dynamic that remained dimly grasped by high school bullies. Dean and Sam would punch each other, insult each other, prank each other - but if someone else tried that shit? Yeah, they were going to find themselves knocked on their ass with one, or maybe both brothers standing over them, hands curled into fists, ready to beat the living daylights out them.

It was the same dynamic even now. Only the Winchesters could rag on each other. Only another Winchester had the right to make you so fucking miserable you wanted to just hand in the membership pack and renounce the whole deal. Thanks, I tried being a Winchester. It sucked. Moving on. Can I still keep the two free albums?

Sam strode back into the house, not particularly caring if anyone saw him, even though it was three in the morning. Although he was kind of surprised that no one had bothered phoning the cops when his brother was wailing like a banshee in the attic.

He stopped briefly, listening. Outside, the place was silent. Supernatural sound proofing. Terrific. No one was going to bother them tonight from the normal world and that was a good thing.

He stepped into the house, loaded the shotgun on the kitchen table. Cheryl, Emma and Ben watched him. Emma and Ben were wide-eyed and Cheryl just seemed to be amazed at his stubbornness.

"What are you going to do, even if you get in there?"

"Let's just say I have a few special talents that are going to make Calvin Lowry regret he ever caused anyone pain at all."

"And what are we supposed to do?"

Good point. Calvin Lowry would just move onto the next person in line. Most likely that would be Ben. He handed over the shotgun to Cheryl. "You know how to handle this?"

She nodded.

Sam continued. "Salt rounds. It'll make a dent in him if he heads your way."

"What about the the children?"

Emma stepped forward, looking a lot older than nine. "You're not leaving us here. I want something too."

"You're too young," he said and tried not to make it sound like it was an accusation.

"I wore that locket. I'm not too young."

Suddenly, she was a female version of Dean. Nine-years old and grown up before either of them had a right to grow up. Sam's childhood memories, viewed from the perspective of a five year-old said that Dean at nine _was_ a grown up. But looking down at Emma, he could see that she wasn't. Not at all.

No way. She wasn't going to be some midget version of the Terminator.

"Nothing is going to happen. Cheryl knows how to handle the gun," he replied.

"I don't believe you. Calvin Lowry is powerful. Everyone in our family is scared of him."

He had to save Dean, but he knew that if he left now, Emma was more than likely follow as soon as she could scheme a way to escape from Cheryl. He couldn't afford to have two children running around the house when they were out of his line of sight.

An idea hit him. An idea that was probably sending him to cement his invitation to hell.

"Emma, do you have your water bottle?"

"In the living room."

"Okay, run and get it for me."

Emma did as she was told, returning in double-quick time. Sam carefully unscrewed the cap on the bottle, unscrewed the cap on the gallon jug and began pouring the holy water into it. He then recapped.

"Okay, Emma, that's filled with holy water. You see Calvin Lowry and you aim your water bottle at him and then squirt it at him. That should scare him off."

Emma nodded solemnly and went to stand before Ben in a protective gesture that was so much like Dean, Sam was beginning to wonder if Emma's mother was related to the Winchesters. His father could have exchanged child rearing tips on the phone.

_Hey, I figured out how to make the eldest super responsible and crippled with self esteem issues. We should go out to dinner and talk about it._

He glanced over at Cheryl, who wasn't as impressed with his approach as Emma and Ben.

"I'm calling Bobby," she said with a voice that carried an edge.

"Great. By the time he gets here, I should be finished," he said. "I'm going upstairs. You got an ax?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to have to demolish the door."

"Out back in the shed. I just had the blade sharpened, so it should be good. The stairs to the attic are at the end of hallway behind a door. Open it and follow them up."

"Okay. Just stay down here. No matter what. Stay down here."

{\\SN//}


	9. Chapter 9

{\\SN//}

Bobby was dead to the world in his bed with the sagging mattress when his cellphone started ringing. It took a few minutes before he reacted, and fumbled for the phone. Cheryl would phone him late, but never _this_ late.

"Talk to me, sweetheart."

"You need to get over here, right God damn now!"

He was instantly alert. He sat up, got himself out of the bed and began searching for his clothes as soon as she started speaking.

"What's going on? What happened?"

"It's fucked up, that's what. Dean's been kidnapped by a ghost, Sam is about to try and bust down the door to my attic with an ax and I'm downstairs in my kitchen with a shot gun loaded with rock salt. Emma's okay, by the way."

"Shit."

"Yes, shit is a very good word at this point in time. How soon can you get here?"

"Christ, it's a good two hours from your place. I'm gonna try and double-time it. Avoid the cops if I can. Jesus..."

He was hopping into his jeans, pulling them over his thermal underwear while he was talked. Moved to the dresser to grab his car keys. "Is Dean okay?"

"I don't know, Bobby. Honestly, I don't know. About all I can tell you is that he's alive."

It was all so fucking _unfair_. He was normally so damn cautious and leery of anything supernatural. You just didn't fool with it and what had he done? Thought a job was a non-event because he couldn't find any clues to suggest otherwise apart from an eccentric spell breaking ritual.

"Cheryl, you'll be okay. Sam's a damn fine hunter. He's gonna get Dean and he's not going to let anything happen to you."

"Just get over here. Now." Her voice had taken on the tone who was a little scared, but mostly just massively pissed off.

"I'm leaving right now. Look, phone me back in about 10-minutes when I'm on the road. Give me an update." He closed his phone, ran downstairs, grabbed an already packed duffel from the couch. Grabbed a shotgun.

One of the dogs padded over to him but he waved the mutt off. "You're staying here. Don't want ya hurt."

He jumped in the car, headed out of his junkyard with a screech of rubber and dirt spraying everywhere. Started praying that Dean would get out of it in one piece because the kid didn't need any more crap happening to him.

Bobby briefly turned his eyes to the Heavens to pray. It was the prayer of a man who didn't expect his plea to be answered but wasn't above trying anyway. "You hear me, God. Don't let anything happen to Dean. You can't be that cruel."

{\\SN//}

Dean was hunched over, sitting on the floorboards, wishing to God he could stop hurting long enough to somehow get himself moving. His back wasn't cooperating on that point but what was a little pain when it came to his life?

He managed to turn his head a small fraction, trying to see if there was a weapon anywhere in reach. He didn't need much. Iron. A cross. Salt. He wasn't asking for a nuke here, just a break.

He brain idly wondered at that moment where Castiel was, but Castiel seemed to only turn up in unexpected moments. He then pondered whether Castiel only bothered to turn up when Heaven's personally chosen warrior was in serious mortal danger. Maybe it was like Little League. Hey, the kid's okay – he just fell down. Scrapped his knee.

Comforting in a screwed up way. Using that twisted logic, he was just going to suffer but not die. His brain threw in the helpful suggestion – one that he didn't like to think on too hard – that the angels were happy to leave him in hell for forty years. He got pulled out on a technicality. Weird technicalities could get him sent back.

The strap hit the top of his feet again. Dean managed to let out a hoarse yell.

Then something very solid hit the door and stopped Calvin Lowry in his tracks.

{\\SN//}

Sam had no trouble finding the ax, and he had no trouble finding the door at the end of the hallway and the door to the attic and then no trouble at all splintering right through the attic door.

The wood was demolished in a minute flat, because he was running on adrenaline and he was royally, unbelievably fucked off at the world and that Dean kept getting smacked around at every conceivable opportunity.

He kind of hoped Dean had seen him smashing the door because it was like the Jack Nicholson moment out of _The Shining._

It was a task punching out a big enough hole for him to squeeze through, but there was no way the door was just going to open up. Ghosts had a thing about slamming doors shut and then making sure you couldn't open them again. They were somewhat stymied by a human being coming _through_ the door.

Sam's eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the attic. A couple of dirty windows let the moonlight through and a couple of bulbs illuminated the center of the room. Enough to see his brother stripped down to a pair of jeans and huddled over with his head tucked under arms in an effort to protect himself.

Calvin Lowry stood over him, a fucking leather belt – a razor strop – swinging through the air and Sam felt a rage build within him like a storm.

Calvin Lowry was getting what was coming to him. Big time.

"Get away from my brother, you twisted fuck."

Calvin Lowry stopped himself in mid-belt and turned to face Sam. His very dead eyes lit up at the sight.

"Oh. _Two brothers_. This is indeed a most fortunate day for me."

"Not really," shot back Sam. He held out his hand, started concentrating, building his power, willing whatever was inside of him to come out and shatter Calvin Lowry into smoke. Into thin air. Send him to where he should have gone over a century ago.

He felt the power build, felt it swirl in him, sort of like a battery, sort of like the lightening in a cloud, sort of tingling and he always felt strangely wonderful at this point. It was a tiny between-point in time where he wasn't the Sam of old and he wasn't the Sam he was meant to become. The Sam powerful enough to banish all the evil in the world. For good.

Calvin Lowry approached him, and Sam let the surge running around in his belly to concentrate in his shoulder, travel down his arm, tingle around his fingertips.

Wind blew, the dust in the attic moved.

Calvin Lowry looked scared but nothing else happened. Sam tried again, felt a trickle of blood run down his nose. This time he watched Lowry's form expand, looking like it was about to burst apart and abruptly stop. The ghost reeled back and there was nothing more.

Crap.

He spared a glance at Dean, hoped his brother had at least taken advantage of the situation and tried to get away. But he was still curled over on himself, head on knees, forearms over head. No sign of movement.

"Dean?"

"Now, now, do not pester your brother. He is being very good at doing as he is told."

He ignored Lowry, tried again. "_Dean_."

His brother was somewhere else, and it seemed he'd be getting nothing more from him. This wasn't good, although strangely, Sam still felt smugly self confident, as if his first couple of attempts were just a slight hiccup in his ultimate vanquishing plan.

Lowry seemed thrilled.

"I have been challenged once or twice, but never to this degree. Clearly the deal with I made with my demon friend to retain my power was worth it. I should thank you for proving that I cannot be destroyed."

Sam took a step back, away from Calvin Lowry, nutcase. "Not really the sort of thanks I was looking for."

Calvin seemed content to play with his next potential victim, edging forward, Sam taking a step back, but trying to somehow circle around in this eccentric two-step so he could get to Dean.

"Oh, I think I shall have enormous amounts of fun with you. Your brother became compliant a little too quickly, which is a great shame."

"I am going to kick you all the way down to hell,"said Sam. With vehemence.

"I will enjoy your attempt," purred Lowry. Then he flicked his undead manicured right hand and Sam found himself inexplicably pinned against a wall, his arm knocking over a rusting bird cage and stand. He let out a hiss at the force of the collision with the wall.

"Sam?"

The noise seemed to rouse Dean from whatever state he was in.

"Dean. Dean, you need to get to door, man. Get out."

He watched his brother slowly uncurl himself, look up at Lowry. School his face into that dead-to-rights look of a stone cold killer.

Lowry seemed to think that Dean attempting to stare him down was nearly as funny as Sam attempting to destroy him by using his mind.

Dean tried to straighten himself out, placing his palms on the floor as he attempted to roll over onto his knees. "You can't control both of us."

Lowry teasingly flicked the strop through the air, laughed when he saw Dean was averting his gaze and trying not to look. "I do not need to control you, and your brother has been sufficiently subdued."

The ghost walked back to Sam, ran a hand over a shoulder, looked like he was sizing up a prime piece of steak. "I think that the strop shall not have much effect on you. Such pride needs more drastic measures."

Weirdly, the strop was replaced by a pair of pliers.

"I have heard from a variety of gentlemen that having the fingernails removed by force is exceedingly painful."

A few years ago, Sam would have been scared. No shame in admitting it. Ghost. Ghost with pliers. Ghost with pliers threatening to remove your very much living fingernails. That would be enough to scare anyone, even a hunter. But things happened to you when you faced the same dread night after night. You learned to shut off. You even learned to shut down. Dean had learned it long ago and for him, the normal world, the one Sam had longed for, had receded. The gap between shoreline and the storms of an unsafe sea had grown wide. Too far to row back.

So now he wasn't scared, even stuck to a wall unable to move. There was nothing inside of him except for revenge and guilt and those two emotions would let him watch Lowry rip his fingers apart and he'd scream from the pain but he sure wouldn't scream for mercy. If Lowry dropped his guard for one second, Sam would seize the opportunity and fuck Lowry over, but good.

"Mr. Sam!"

Sam's attention was ripped from Lowry, over to Emma. Emma standing there, holding the locket with its scorch marks, and her water bottle in the other. Cheryl stood beside her, shotgun aimed at Lowry.

Lowry looked a little astonished by this turn of events. Cheryl didn't waste any time but let loose, the salt rounds going straight through Lowry in a wholly satisfying way. The ghost disappeared and Sam was released from the wall.

Sam was faced with some decisions. Emma, Cheryl and Dean. All of them vulnerable. He made a grab for Emma, then went with Cheryl to help Dean.

Dean was still trying to get to his feet and failing. Cheryl put the shotgun down on the floor, seemed less intent on hauling Dean off his ass than on trying to stop his agitated movements.

Sam looked around nervously. He didn't care much about himself, but he sure as hell cared about the two civilians in the room with him and his injured brother. "Come, on. Hurry. We don't have much time."

"Mr. Sam!" Emma yelled to get his attention.

"What, what is it?"

"It's the locket," said Cheryl. "There are still human remains in the locket."

Emma shoved the locket at Sam. "The squiggly stuff on the front. My mom told me it was made from bone."

The scroll work was not ivory as Sam had presumed. It was human bone. Mary Anne had carved up a piece of Calvin Lowry and set it into the gold of the locket. Their small salt and burn with the briquettes and the lighter fluid hadn't charred the bone enough.

He set Emma back on the floor, ran for the ax. Threw the locket down. Raised the ax. Emma moved to stand beside Cheryl, the only other functioning adult in the room.

Lowry reappeared and for the first time, Sam could detect genuine fear on his face and couldn't resist dragging the opportunity out.

"You're going to feel this, you sadistic fuck. Really feel it and then you're going to know what it's like for the boys and men you've tormented over the years."

Lowry stepped forward, and there was a voice behind Sam.

"I got you covered, Sam. Do it." Cheryl aimed the shotgun again, her hands steady.

Sam bought the ax down on the locket. The first strike was hard, the impact traveling up his forearms, and the blow of the ax caving in the locket was more than he expected. There was a faint cracking sound as the scroll work on the locket shattered.

Lowry reeled back, a look of disbelief on his face. He threw his head back then, his face twisted into a grimace. He screamed.

Sam raised the ax again, brought the blunt head of the ax down onto the metal this time. More shattering of the scroll work and Lowry roared.

Sam paused, noticed Dean watching intently, a smile starting to appear on his face.

Lowry reeled, put his heads to his hand. "Stop! Stop, I beg you. This hurts!"

Dean's smile got bigger at the sound and he was more active now. Trying to get to his feet, Cheryl holding one arm, trying to get him to stay where he was. Emma, standing behind both of them, as far away as possible, frightened and hopeful.

Sam was smiling too, smiling because when revenge came, it was a beautiful and grand creature that couldn't be contained. It welled up inside, threatening to burst his skin open and oh, he loved this creature inside of him. It made him closer to his father, made him understand why it was good to wait for this moment, even if it took a lifetime to get there.

The ax raised again, smashed down again, the locket flattened, crushed and the bone scattered into smaller pieces.

Lowry gave a long drawn out scream and then out of nowhere, wisping from the floorboards, another presence appeared. A woman. Dressed in a hooped skirt with large sleeves. Her face, eternally sad. She was with another man, a demon. She reached out for Lowry.

"The contract is broken, husband. Time to pay the price."

Lowry was screaming again, not from pain this time. Mary Anne wrapped her arms around Calvin, clutching him tight. The began dragging him into her, Lowry fighting her, the both of them slowly disintegrating into smoke, Mary Anne pulling him down.

Dean's smile had taken on a maniacal quality. He managed to shake off Cheryl, rock forward so that he was on his right side, palms on the floor to keep himself balanced. Fixated on the struggle.

"I know where you're going you fucking prick! You're gonna know all about pain. They're gonna tear you apart and you can't get away. You won't _ever_ get away." Dean was starting to laugh but there was no amusement there.

As Lowry began to fade, his screams softening until they sounded like the faint rustle of the wind, Dean continued to laugh, the laugh morphing into hysteria. Sam stood where he was, sucking in breath, and feeling the joy and wonder of the demon energy ebbing from him, like he had a plug at the bottom of his shoes and it was draining out of his feet.

Cheryl put a hand to Dean's face to try and get his attention.

"Dean, hey, honey," she was saying. "Look at me. Okay? Look at me."

She managed to draw his attention from the floor.

"He's gonna get hurt. _Bad_. If I was there, I'd do it. Alistair would have let me do it." Dean was half talking, half mumbling to Cheryl, as if he was asking her approval of whatever he was talking about. "Dad always said that you had to expect punishment if you did something wrong."

Sam slowly put down the ax, and found he didn't know what to do. The downside of revenge appeared to be its fleeting nature.

Cheryl glanced up at him, got his attention. "Sam, can you take Emma downstairs?

Maybe she sensed that Sam needed to be useful. Emma was crying, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Cheryl bent down to her level, her hand on Emma's shoulder.

"Sam's gonna take care of you. He'll make sure you're okay."

Sam took his cue from Cheryl, his brain slipping quietly into automatic. If someone wanted to be in charge and tell him what to do, that was just fine with him.

"Hey, Emma," he changed his tone, made himself seem less threatening. "Where's Ben?"

"I told him to go outside, and wait on the back porch. That way the ghost man couldn't hurt him."

"Well, that was a very smart thing to do."

"Sam, why don't you take Emma downstairs and go and fetch Ben. Maybe you could make them hot chocolate, something good like that."

Dean was still on the ground, muttering. Cheryl had a hand on his forearm, whispering reassurances.

"I should stay," said Sam. Even when he said those words, he didn't know if they were true. It occurred to him that maybe this was what truly scared him. What had made him doubt his brother since he got back from hell. Sam had always relied on Dean to be there, to simply operate like the solider that he was. Dean was always... _Dean_. Making jokes, obsessing over the car but rarely revealing anything of his inner life.

The man on the floor, talking about things that Sam should have understood but didn't, scared him because he was realizing that maybe he didn't really want to know how Dean felt. Not if everything Dean kept inside of himself reduced him to _this_.

Maybe Cheryl had enough life experience to know that too, and that just at this moment, it was a slightly better choice for Sam to deal with two children and that particular distraction, than the bigger problem of his brother falling apart.

"Yeah... Right. I'll...," he hesitated. Didn't want to leave because guilt was rearing its ugly head again, but just wasn't sure what to do. "I'll go downstairs. Call me. Okay? Call me if you need me."

Cheryl tried for a reassuring smile. "You betcha. I'll be hollering so loud, half the neighborhood will hear me. And don't worry, Sam. I'm just going to help your brother get downstairs. That's all. We'll be quick."

Sam nodded, and clutching Emma's small hand, he began leading her out of the attic and back to a normal life.

He was just getting to the bottom of the stairs when someone started hammering on the door.

He opened it up, past the point of caring who was out there and Bobby nearly fell inside. He was clutching a shotgun, ready for action. He saw Sam standing there, dazed but physically unharmed and a crying Emma.

"Jesus, thank... Are you okay? Is Dean okay? Cheryl said she was going upstairs..."

"I'm okay. The ghost's gone but Dean's upstairs in the attic. I think Cheryl needs some help."

Bobby nodded, put down his gun, clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Damn, I've gotta stop turning up to these shindigs so late in the schedule."

Then he headed for the stairs, started taking them two at a time.

{\\SN//}

A large hand was cupping his face, and a familiar voice – Bobby - was asking him to focus a little but he thought he was incredibly focused.

He was focused on absolution and understanding but they didn't seem to get it. He was telling them over and over but there didn't seem to be any understanding.

"I know what they're gonna do to him. I _know_. Forever and ever like a wedding, but not until death do you part, 'cause you're already dead. Alistair said that I was still learning but I had potential. Lots of potential. In the end I think he would let me, you know, for old time's sake and I think I'd enjoy it. Uh huh. Yeah. I'd enjoy it."

Cheryl said something to him then, but he had no idea what she was saying, so he ignored her and tried to get his important point across.

Very bad people went to hell too. Not just people who made shitty deals at the crossroads. Bad, bad, people. If he was down in hell, and Calvin Lowry turned up, Dean felt like he would be justified in paying back the hurt.

But that didn't seem right somehow, all vaguely unethical and unrighteous. Maybe the whole point in being a man with principles was not agreeing to torture anyone at all, even if they'd been the crappiest people that ever walked the planet. That thought didn't seem right either.

His mouth just kept talking and running the scenarios around in an ever decreasing, confused circle.

{\\SN//}

Bobby was gently rubbing the back of Dean's head, about the only place that wasn't covered in bruises and welts. Cheryl was continuing to talk to him, a long and steady patter of nothings that were designed to let Dean know that he wasn't alone.

He watched as she ran a professional eye and hand over the damage before directing her next words to Bobby. She fished some keys out from the pocket on her jeans.

"I think he's going to be in too much pain to walk out of here. I have a back board downstairs. Can you bring it up for me?"

He took the keys from her. "Sure. Anything else? You want a c-collar?"

"To be safe. He's been moving his head and neck and there doesn't seem to be any problems but I want to check. I also need you to open up the drug cabinet and look for a vial labeled Ativan. Bring that, plus a disposable syringe, packet of 26 gauge hypodermics and some wipes."

"Lorazepam. You're going to sedate him?"

"I don't want to knock him out, just calm him down and get his muscles to relax before we move him. In his current state, we'll never get him out of here."

Bobby got to his feet, considered her, and Dean, who seemed to be running out of steam. "Hell of a mess."

"Yeah. Then again, I kind of guessed it was SOP for these guys."

"Didn't really expect it to be for this particular job though." And he hadn't. Thought he was doing them a favor and here they were, the entire genius idea having gone spectacularly wrong.

"Join the club."

Bobby made for the door, leaving Cheryl and Dean alone.

{\\SN//}

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling out of sorts. What he really wanted to do, now that he'd had a chance to get his bearings and calm down, was head back upstairs to Dean. But he had two children to take care of, both of them still scared out of their minds.

Ben had been easy enough to find. He'd been standing in exactly the same place that Emma had left him, Emma's strident directives having the desired effect.

Ben was a little cold from the night air, but apart from that he was fine. Emotionally though, he was shaken and as soon as Sam had opened the door, he'd burst into tears and run to Emma, clinging to her for dear life.

He'd taken both children by the hand and sat them down at the table, blindingly going through motions that he wasn't all that familiar with. They were both dressed in pajamas and looked cold, so he'd taken the coats off the coat rack near the back door and got them dressed. Rationally he should have headed back upstairs and found some clothes that fit them, but the coats seemed just as good, even if they did come down past their feet. After that, he thought they might like some cookies, so he put a few on a plate, then managed to find some Hershey's Good Night Kisses stashed in a cupboard, along with tiny marshmallows.

He couldn't remember having cocoa as a child, so read the back of the packet diligently, feeling strange that he was worrying about boiling water correctly.

While he did that, he tried to keep up a smooth patter that sounded reassuring. He was kind of getting an understanding of what it must have been like for Dean growing up. His brother had somehow managed to find the time to look after Sam, and keep him calm even when he would have been exhausted. About all Sam wanted to do right now was climb into bed and sleep but his primary focus had to be on the two children who needed his help.

"Will Mr. Dean be alright?" It was Emma, her voice small and hesitant.

He didn't really know, but that wasn't what you told children. "He'll be just fine. He just needs some rest, that's all."

"Mr. Dean was scared."

"We were all pretty scared."

Emma nodded her agreement. Ben yawned, the trials of the past day catching up to him.

"You want to watch TV?"

"Yes, please," they both chorused. Sam liked the sound of it himself. Something mindless and inoffensive and distracting. It would be daylight soon anyway and Dean had always maintained that early morning cartoons were entertaining even if Sam tended to turn his nose up at them.

Emma and Ben awkwardly got out of their seats, the coats dragging behind them, and Sam went with them into the living room, making sure all of the lights were on. He made a show of checking behind the sofa, then turned on the TV. Both Emma and Ben slumped on the couch, switching their over active minds off almost instantly.

Sam went back to the kitchen, made two cups of hot cocoa, threw in the tiny marshmallows. He bought them back to Emma and Ben. They sleepily took them, drinking them without another word. Then Sam, Emma and Ben sat in the living room, watching the TV. It didn't really matter what was on, just that they wanted something to drown out everything they'd just been through.

When they were asleep, Sam got out his hip flask and drank. A small mouthful of blood. Just to top his tank up. Take away the shivering.

{\\SN//}


	10. Chapter 10

{\\SN//}

Dean wasn't sure why he was still in the attic but he did know large chunks of his body hurt, and his mother was sitting next to him.

At least, he thought it was his mother even though she didn't bare any resemblance to what he thought Mary would look like when she got older. This should have been a cause for suspicion but his brain told him to shut up, the woman had made him cookies, and complete strangers didn't make any one cookies.

If she wanted to be his mom, he had no objections at this point in time.

She was talking to him, and he guessed she had been talking for a while but up until recently whatever she'd been saying hadn't made any sense. He was too busy trying to work with the mini-ethic's committee running around in his head and how that related to Calvin Lowry's exit from the attic. The woman that was sort of like his Mom had him propped up so that he was leaning against her on his right side, most of the weight being taken by the less bruised side of his hip and his thigh. His head was leaning against her shoulder.

"Bobby's going to be back in a minute, and then we'll get you out of here."

"Why is Bobby here?" He heard himself say and did actually wonder.

"He came over to help," she replied. He decided she had a nice voice.

"Oh. Where's Sam?"

"Down in the living room with Emma and Ben."

"Okay," he said but only had a vague recollection of who she was referring to.

There was a big cog in his brain, slowly spinning around, working its way back to normality. Events clicked into place, and he was feeling less unglued every second although taken aback with the realization that he'd temporarily managed to get himself unglued in the first place.

His brain was telling him that the woman who was letting him lean against her probably wasn't his mother. She was someone else, someone who'd been kind to both of them. Cheryl. Yeah, that was her name. He thought he'd try it out.

"Hey... Cheryl."

She smiled down at him, seemed pleased he remembered her name. "Hey kiddo. How are you?"

"Um. Okay?" He asked because he thought she might know the answer.

"Yeah, you're okay." She sounded very reassuring when she said it. Like he was supposed to take notice of it.

He tested her theory out but trying to move. His muscles demonstrated their current state of unlove for him by sending lots and lots of pain signals up to his brain. He sucked in his breath, decided not to try that again.

"Holy fucking cow," he breathed. Moving bad. Staying still, good.

"Yeah, I think you're gonna be sore for a couple of days at least. As soon as Bobby comes back, I want to get you down to my exam room, make sure there's nothing serious to worry about."

He didn't reply to that because at least she wasn't suggesting hospital.

She continued. "How are your legs? Any pins and needles?"

"No. I can feel everything. Damn it."

"You were moving around a lot, even though I tried to stop you. You want to wiggle your toes for me?"

"Not really." No, he didn't want to wiggle his toes. His toes and feet were throbbing in time to his heart beat, much like his thighs, his butt, his back, and his left upper arm.

"Yeah, I know, it sucks. But do an old lady a favor."

He did as she asked, experimentally shifted his toes around, and his feet, bit his bottom lip at the pain that was making itself known and stopped within ten seconds flat.

"See," he gasped. "All toes fully wriggling. But I think one of them is broken."

Actually there no thinking about it. The little toe on his left foot was folded in half at a ninety degree angle. There was a long cut that started at his big toe and followed up to stop halfway up his foot. It oozed blood.

"Is your neck okay? No pain?"

"Not as bad as everywhere else, so I guess it's okay."

"How much pain are you in, anywhere specific, or are some areas worse than others?"

"Everything hurts equally. I think that makes me a democracy."

"Was that a joke?"

"Maybe. I hurt too much to care whether it was funny or not."

It occurred to him that he wanted to move away from Cheryl, and deal with this whole mess the way he normally did. Limp off to a motel bathroom, wash off the worst of the blood, go to bed with a pack of ice and ignore Sam, unless Sam had to do some fancy stitching, pop a shoulder back into place for him, or cart him off to the hospital. Didn't cats do that? Run off and hide under a bush somewhere until they healed or died?

Problem was, he was too tired, too hurt to move. Which left him here, on the floor, his personal space definitely being breached, without the necessary resolve to crawl off. His emotional circuits were all screwed up anyway. Typical. Feed Dean Winchester and he was yours for life.

He was so pathetic. With that thought he started to prop himself back up.

"What the hell are you doing? Just stay here until Bobby gets back." Cheryl put an arm around his shoulders as gently as possible, pulled him back. Problem was, if she was any more caring and sympathetic, he was pretty sure a vein in his head would pop.

"Look, I'm okay. Just gotta get on my feet and I'll be fine. Really. Job's done and we really need to leave."

He was interrupted by the reappearance of Bobby. Who seemed startled to see him talking with some sense.

"Boy, you're not going anywhere. You're bruised, battered and you need to lie the fuck down and let someone take care of you."

Well, no arguing with Bobby when he used that tone of voice. If he tried making a play for freedom again he had no doubt that Bobby would simply hog tie him. Nope. Bobby Singer was an even, mild mannered kind of guy right up until you annoyed him one too many times, or tried to hurt someone innocent and then it was a shotgun in your face.

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

"Hey, Bobby," he said. A question nagging at him. 'Is Sam okay?"

Bobby walked over, put the backboard down next to both of them then moved to kneel down in front of Cheryl and Dean, handing the cervical collar to Cheryl. "He's fine. He's taking care of Emma and Ben."

"How come he's not here?"

Cheryl answered the question "Because I told him to go and take care of them. I had my hands full and he was best person to make sure they were okay."

"Oh."

He blinked, felt tired. Cheryl had shifted her attentions to organizing his removal from the crappy, decorating nightmare of an attic. Despite the cotton wool feeling in his head, he didn't miss the look that went between Cheryl and Bobby. Bobby casually took out another package from a jacket pocket, handed that and a syringe, plus hypodermics to Cheryl.

"What?" He asked.

"Never mind," said Bobby.

"Yeah, uh-huh, Dad used to say the same thing and that phrase always meant something bad."

Cheryl chimed in. "I'm just going to give you a small dose of a sedative. I'm not knocking you out. I just want you relaxed enough that we can get you out of here without causing you too much stress."

Dean pulled a face, started to protest but something in him told him to shut up. Back in the old days, he hated sedation. It made him sleepy and vulnerable and he never remembered half of what happened when he was under its effects. But that was the old Dean. The thought of not having a care in the world, and curling up for eight hours of napping, with the added bonus of oblivion sounded like a vacation.

"Okay. I guess. If you think I need it."

He could see the shocked expression on Bobby's face. Dean Winchester was deferring to a doctor. About medication.

Cheryl smiled. "That's my boy." She used a small alcohol wipe on the crook of his arm. Loaded up a syringe and injected him. "You should feel this sooner rather than later."

She grabbed the collar. Gently placed it around his neck, strapped him into it. By the time she'd done that he was beginning to feel drowsy.

"How do you wanna do this?" Bobby was asking Cheryl, not Dean and Dean flashed back to a very early hazy memory of him in the backseat of the family car, Mom and Dad in the front, talking about adult stuff he didn't understand. He knew it was boring though.

Cheryl contemplated the backboard. "Let's get this against Dean, and then he can roll on it. If he lies curled up on his side in the same position, it shouldn't be too bad."

He was far too tired to care but never did like being talked about in the third person. "Hey, I'm right here. Hello."

Bobby shifted his focus again, to Dean. "You're gonna be bad ass about this, aren't you?"

"You're about to haul me out of here on this stupid stretcher thingy. That's a complete loss of dignity right there."

Bobby couldn't seem to figure out whether he should be amused, or irritated. "Stop your griping and just see if you can even straighten out first."

Cheryl shifted herself back a few inches, providing some stability for him as he slowly shuffled himself onto the backboard. The movement caused every single muscle to send urgent notes about the amount of hurt they were in.

"Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck on a stick."

Cheryl ignored his sailor talk and bent down to get her grip on one set of handles. "I'll give you something for that when we're downstairs." She strapped him in as best so could, trying to make sure he wasn't going to slide off.

"I hope you mean the pain, and not for what I just said," said Dean. He was really proud of himself. Another joke in less than five minutes _and_ he was on the verge of taking a very long nap.

Bobby went to the other end of the board, but Dean couldn't really see behind him, just feel Bobby experimenting with the weight and making sure he could pick everything up.

"Are we sure we don't want Sam to help? No insult but I'm being lifted by an old guy and a woman who's the size of an elf."

"Seriously boy, shut up."

"If you drop me, I'm gonna be unhappy."

"What did I just say?"

Truth was, as long as he kept making jokes, no matter how tired, and in pain he was, it made it okay. He could ignore his brief flight to where ever it was that he went and he could pretend everything was normal again in the Winchester way. That was, he'd been thumped, but good, but he wasn't in hospital, and that counted as a spectacular day in his books.

"Okay, on _three," _huffed Bobby.

Then he was in in the air by a few feet, and somehow they were all moving together, back towards the door.

They went past the spot where Lowry has disappeared into the floorboards and there were no signs that he'd existed, apart from the remains of the locket.

The first blue streaks of day were beginning to change the nature of the attic. Spooky shapes were turning into a dressmaker's dummy, an old mirror, a writing desk, broken chairs, and old suitcases.

Dean closed his eyes and thought about where he'd rather be now. In his car, driving down the freeway, maybe towards Huron and the fiberglass pheasant.

Yeah, that'd do.

{\\SN//}

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, Sam. Wake up."

The voice wasn't Dean's and it took a few moments for the fog to lift. Bobby was standing over him, gently shaking him on the shoulder. He abruptly sat up, thinking that every time someone woke him up this way he nearly always got crummy news.

"What? Is Dean okay?"

"He's good. Wondered if you wanted to help out getting him back upstairs. He's being a stubborn bastard, as usual."

Sam looked around the room, got his bearings. Daylight was streaming through the curtains and Emma and Ben were curled up on the couch, still wrapped in their too-big coats. The TV was still on.

"What's the time?"

"Eight in the morning."

"Really? You could have woken me sooner."

"You needed your beauty sleep."

That didn't make Sam's mood any happier. He should have been there for Dean, not sacked out in the living room.

"You couldn't have done anything," said Bobby, as if he'd read the expression on Sam's face and known what he was thinking. "Besides, how do you think Emma and Ben would have felt being left alone?"

"You could have taken care of them."

"Okay, yes. Maybe. But to be honest, I thought Dean could maybe do with some privacy."

He wanted to laugh at that, because they'd been sharing hotel rooms since Dean was four and privacy was definitely low on their most treasured moments. About the only time they ended up getting some alone time was when they went to the bathroom.

"Dean wouldn't have cared," he replied, sounding pissed off.

"So sue me, but I kind of thought he would. You know how much he tries to hide what he's feelin' and being in that state in front of his brother wasn't going to help."

Bobby had a point. Dean had slammed shut about his time in hell for months, deeply ashamed of what had happened. He'd shut down even more if he thought Sam had witnessed his temporary nervous breakdown. Dean Winchester didn't do vulnerable and he didn't do broken. Neither did Sam when it came to his big brother. Sam didn't know what to do with broken.

"Come on. He's down the hallway."

He got out of his chair, groaned at the state of his own back, followed Bobby out into the hallway and down to the room Cheryl used as her doctor's office. The door was open and Cheryl was helping a hunched over Dean slowly do a shuffle walk. He was wearing a t-shirt and what looked to be a pair of Sam's PJ pants because the cuffs were rolled up. Presumably Cheryl hadn't found anything suitable in Dean's stash of clothes. Sam could tell that Dean was in the sort of mood reserved for Dean's list of irritations that included slow waitresses, waitresses at diners that served bad hamburgers, people that drove to the speed limit, librarians and old people who insisted on paying for their groceries with their penny collection.

He also looked half asleep, so he wasn't really putting as much effort into being irritated as he usually did.

Sam easily slid around the other side, grabbed Dean's other arm, took the rest of the weight. Whether Dean wanted to admit it or not, he was leaning on them both just to stay upright.

"When is the diclofenac going to kick in?" Dean demanded of Cheryl. He didn't seem to notice Sam.

"Shortly. Now keep shuffling."

"I'm not going to make it upstairs. I'll sleep downstairs."

"I don't want you to have to walk too far to the bathroom and the couch isn't suitable for sleeping on in your condition."

"You make it sound like I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant woman aren't nearly as cranky," she replied. "We get you upstairs then you're staying there for a few days."

Dean finally seemed to notice that the other half of him was being propped up. He gave his brother a half smile and then he blinked owlishly a couple of times. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey," replied Sam.

"Hey, Sam. I'm going to sleep as soon as I hit the bed."

"That's great, Dean," said Sam, wondering why Dean had felt the need to make the announcement.

Sam took a breath, figuring out the best way to reestablish brotherly bonds. "How're you feeling?"

"How'd you think I'm feeling? Fucked up. This hurts worse than when I break a bone. Cause when that happens they give me the good stuff. I told her I could just walk it off, but no, she says I can't get walk around for a day or two."

Sam smirked at that, then found himself looking down at Dean's bare feet. They were mottled with one long smear of blue and red. A little toe had been taped to the other toes. There were six stitches along the back of the big toe, snaking up to the top of the left foot.

Cheryl let out a sigh. "He's screwed up the muscles in his lower back again. Normally I'd tell him to keep active, but with the muscle contusions as well, I don't think he's going to be in any shape to go anywhere over the next two days. The only upside is there aren't any major breaks and there's no compartment syndrome. Or at least, not right now."

Dean snapped at her. "I'm right here!"

They managed to make it to the base of the stairs. Dean looked up at the single flight of stairs and groaned.

"We're never going to get up there."

"Sam and Bobby are going to lift you."

Bobby swapped positions with Cheryl.

"Okay. Fine. Let's do this," grumped Dean.

He put one foot up on the stair, and Sam and Bobby simultaneously stepped up, their arms firmly under Dean's braced arms and this also allowed Dean to restrict his need to bare too much weight on the up step.

Between the three of them they completed the climb, even though they were all beginning to breath heavily and then they maneuvered Dean towards the bed.

Cheryl pulled the quilt and top sheet out of the way and he was able to lie down, on his front before complaining. "Great, now I'm stuck like this."

Cheryl shook her head, bent down towards him. "Why don't you try lying on your side?"

She rolled him expertly, Dean drawing up his knees with a hiss. Cheryl grabbed a pillow, put it between his ankles to keep his bruised feet from contacting each other.

He didn't seem any happier. But his eyelids were drooping shut anyway.

"I'm going back down for the ice packs. Bobby's going to mind Emma and Ben for a while. Do you want Sam to stay?"

Sam kept thinking it was strange that everyone kept asking whether Sam should stick around.

"Uh huh," replied Dean as if Cheryl was asking if he wanted the sky to be blue. Of course Sam was sticking around because that's what Sam did.

She gave them both a smile, left the room, hauling Bobby out by the arm. Presumably she wanted to give them some alone time.

Sam pulled the chair closer, looked at his brother. There was a smudge of dirt across his face. His hair was covered in dust. The chasm between them seemed impossibly wide even though they were inches apart.

"You cold?" Sam asked. It was a straightforward expression of concern. Nothing about how anyone was feeling, or unspoken subtext about what had gone on in the attic. They were experts at this particular dance, but then so were most men.

Dean yawned, curled up some more. "No. My back feels like its burning though."

"The ice packs should make that feel better."

Dean didn't reply. He seemed half asleep but struggling to stay awake like a kid who didn't want to go to bed. This seemed to inspire him to say something else. "So much for a simple hunt,"

"Yeah," chuckled Sam.

"We should probably take it up with Bobby."

"I think Bobby feels guilty enough already."

"Definitely."

Dean's eyelids shut completely for a moment before he jerked back awake. "It'll be good for bribery later on."

"Barbecues in summer?"

"He's great with the steak."

"I worry that the highlight of our summer is the possibility of eating barbecued steak in a junkyard."

Dean smiled. It made him look his actual age, and that was good.

They had run out of things to say and Dean's eyes were drifting shut again. Sam sat and watched Dean in silence and realized he'd never felt closer to his father. He wondered if his father had sat like this, wanting his children to understand what he was doing for them. He was sacrificing everything to make sure it never happened again. That his children were safe. Sam understood that. He was sacrificing everything to make sure no one harmed Dean again. That neither of them had to make deals, or live like they did. That somehow he would give them a chance to row back to the shore of a normal life. Not right now, but in the future. He'd be happy if they got into their forties and they had a place that they could actually call home. Just to stay in one place for more than a month would be a novelty.

He thought Dean was finally asleep but his eyes opened again. "Man, this hurts like you wouldn't believe."

"Are the drugs working yet?"

"Starting to. Still burns though."

Cheryl came back, clutching a towel and what looked like enough ice bags for a party of 200. "Sorry, had to raid the freezer. This should help make you more comfortable."

They had to roll him again, so that he was face down, cover him in towels and then lay out the bags on the worst of it. It would be funny if Dean wasn't in so much pain.

"This is stupid," griped Dean. Then, as he was reaching around to throw an ice bag across the bed, he promptly fell asleep.

Sam stayed with him, Dean starting to shiver slightly before Sam took the ice packs off after fifteen-minutes as directed by Cheryl. Thought that their lives really did suck, all things considered.

He spent the rest of the day in the bedroom, helping Dean shift positions in the bed when he woke up, usually bitchy from the pain, applied ice packs every hour, tried to not be concerned that Cheryl was up checking Dean hourly as well, dosing him with a different set of pills every four hours. He squinted and read the pack when she propped Dean up enough to swallow the medication. Diclofenac he knew, but didn't have a clue what prazosin was. He'd look it up later on the 'Net.

Bobby came to visit in the afternoon. Dean woke up, started raving on about barbecues before zoning out again.

"He's not in such a great mood," noted Bobby.

"No," replied Sam. "Not really."

"When he's up and about, you should take him to see the pheasant."

Sam nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing."

"You know I'm damn sorry for how this turned out."

"Hey, we're alive. And you weren't to know."

"Talk about a dumb idea for giving you boys some down time. Normal people would have just bought you two tickets to Disneyland."

"Normal people would be thrilled to go to Disneyland. Knowing the two of us, we'd probably wind up having to deal with a case of demonic possession on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

"You two do seem to attract the bad, I must admit. It's like you're candy to every bit of creepy within a six hundred mile radius."

"What can I say? I think it's our good looks."

"You mean my good looks and your Forrest Gump like innocence," mumbled Dean.

"Go back to sleep," said Sam. "And I do not look like Forrest Gump."

"You do when you run. Life is like a box of chocolates."

"Okay, enough. Back to sleep."

Bobby regarded the lump in the bed, sighed. Scratched his head through his cap.

"I guess I'd better go and arrange to get me a side of beef from the farm down the road before July. Even though it's a long way off."

"You can make hamburgers."

Sam crossed his arms, "Dean, go to sleep!"

{\\SN//}


	11. Chapter 11

{\\SN//}

Cheryl called Susan McCoy at nine in the morning, in between checking on Dean and told her the situation. She knew there wasn't any need to hide the truth. You magically weld a locket to your child's neck, you're not going to blink at being told that the ghost of Calvin Lowry had been disposed of.

Susan had sounded overwhelmed and grateful on the phone, told Cheryl she was already at the airport. She'd been planning to pick the children up later that night anyway. She wanted to know how Emma and Ben were. It was easy enough to pass the phone over, let them talk to their mother. Like most children, they had bounced back relatively promptly. Cheryl had them out of bed, showered, dressed, fed and then they were chasing around in the backyard to burn off some energy.

Emma was thrilled that her mother was coming to pick them up. Cheryl had noticed a distinct change in the girl, her confidence growing by leaps and bounds over the short hours of her freedom. With the locket gone it seemed she felt like she could dump the responsibilities placed on her shoulder and find out what it was like to be a child.

After the phone call, and the regular trips upstairs, she did what she always did when she wanted to relax. She started cooking and decided that with so many guests in the house, lunch was definitely in order.

Bobby joined her, made sure the kids weren't in their line of sight, and put an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him, his other arm wrapping over in front of her collarbone.

"I've been wantin' to do that since I got here."

"Same here."

"You mind me staying a few days? You know, since Sam might need some help with Dean."

"Old man, I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Good. I could use some home cooking."

She gave him a playful slap. "You can cook. You just want someone else to cook for you."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Just so we're clear..."

"Yeah?"

"When you say, 'stay over' I presume that might involve sharing my bed."

"Well, I was never one to presume anything, but if you're asking..."

She slapped him again. "After Emma and Ben have gone."

"You always were one for proper behavior Ms. Manners. What about the boys?"

"It won't kill them."

"That's not what they'll say."

Cheryl hesitated a moment, removed one of his arms so she could go back to whisking eggs. "Bobby, I'm thinking of telling Dean."

"What? That you're an ex-Army shrink?"

"Yes."

"Not such a good idea. He'll yell at you and then he'll start yelling at me."

"He's had enough pain in his life. And enough manipulation. If I'm honest with him, he might just get up enough courage to see me again."

"You ain't seen Dean in a snit. Did I mention the yelling? Did I mention that the boy gets spooked by shrinks and authority figures in general?"

"Yes. Twice."

"Good. Remind me to be somewhere else when you do the deed."

"You're such a coward."

"You gonna tell Sam?"

She frowned at that. Sam. Her instincts said that Sam didn't need to know. Shouldn't know.

"No. I think my prior occupation needs to be private between Dean and me. Something Dean doesn't need anyone else to know."

"'Cept for me."

"Except for you. Of course, I know you'll keep your mouth shut."

He raised an eyebrow at her, still stuck on the Sam part. "You really aren't going to tell Sam? You know something I don't?"

"Just call it a hunch. That's all."

{\\SN//}

Dean woke up late afternoon the next day. Wedged on his front, deeply uncomfortable, hungry, stiffened into a mass of pulled muscles and pain and badly needing to take a leak. He felt terrible and that was _with_ the medication.

Cheryl had politely indicated that he should stay in bed, and use a plastic urinal bottle, and he had told her to shove it. He hated them because they were awkward to use and on the humiliation range they were positioned lower than a bed pan but higher than a catheter. He'd have to be in traction before he'd use it.

"God fucking damn it!"

As no one responded to his cursing, he figured he had been temporarily left alone. He'd made a play for the bathroom a couple of times before and knew what to expect. He cursed his way through rolling himself back onto his side. Cursed as he managed to get himself sitting upright. Cursed because he was actually sitting upright. Cursed as he shambled himself forward off the edge of the bed and cursed really loudly when he stood up. Then cursed some more as he took a small step.

It descended into a litany of solid stream-of-consciousness cursing as he shuffled his way to the bathroom.

"_Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck-fuck_. On a stick. Fuck."

He stopped cursing enough to take a piss, and actually sighed with the relief of an empty bladder. Then, hand washing, and the long and slow half-walk back to bed.

Sam entered as he made it to the mid-point, yelling a heart felt potty mouthed epithet at angels, God, Heaven, hell, archangels, demons, and whoever invented the fabric softener teddy bear.

"Dean, we can hear you downstairs."

"Don't care."

"Well, you know, maybe just lay off the language for an hour. I have visitors with me."

Dean froze in mid shuffle. Emma and Ben were with Sam, neatly dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. A woman he hadn't met before was with them and he guessed it must be their mother. She was covering Ben's ears but Ben shrugged off the hands, completely fascinated by what he'd just heard.

Emma was wide eyed, and amazed. "Mom, I think Mr. Dean just said a whole lot of bad words."

"Yes. I think he did. But I'm sure he didn't mean them."

"Mommy, what does 'fucking son of a bitch' mean?" Ben asked in all innocence.

"Not right now, honey," said the woman.

Dean had a sudden and heart felt wish that the ground would open up and swallow him and put him in some sort of oblivion where he couldn't inadvertently destroy the linguistic innocence of children.

"Uh, sorry about that," he apologized. Tried to look sufficiently contrite. Started shuffling back to the bed again.

Sam rushed over, took his arm and helped him limp the rest of the way. He felt like he was freaking 80 and just as cranky.

It took effort to sit down and he couldn't face the prospect of trying to lie down again, so kept himself upright and on the edge of the bed.

The woman came over to introduce herself.

"I'm Susan McCoy." She reached over, shook his hand. "I don't know what to say, or how to thank you for breaking the family curse."

She sat down in the chair, elegantly brushing her skirt underneath her. Her entire dress standard said businesswoman elegance.

"You can tell me why you left those kids alone," he replied. It came out wrong, sounding accusatory, but he did want to know. Sensed that maybe Emma and Ben were getting a milder repeat of the Winchester childhood.

"Our family became reasonably wealthy over the past century. My great great grandmother started her own trading business and we've somehow managed to survived the current economic climate relatively intact. The sole purpose of our funds was to search for a way to put an end to Lowry. We'd always looked for help from the covens since a coven created the original binding spell. Half of my business trips have been about trying to find the answers. As to Emma and Ben – with the locket bound to Emma, I knew Ben was safe and Emma... All I can say is that I'm sorry for what happened to her but I didn't have any choice. And I didn't want the children to be around some of the people I've contacted."

Dean felt his thighs throbbing in time to his heart beat. He had an unsexy desire to go and sit down in a bathtub lined with ice. "Most hunters would have taken you up on the job if you'd offered."

"We tried a couple of times over the years. They couldn't seem to break the original spell."

"Yeah, it was major hoodoo. Bobby's good at researching that type of stuff."

"Good thing that you were able to cast it so effectively."

There was a brief pause. She started digging around in her handbag, pulling out a check book and a pen. "I wanted to give you something."

Dean shook his head. "We haven't got a bank account."

"We try to keep our names out of circulation as much as possible," added Sam.

This seemed to throw her somewhat but she didn't put it away. "Okay. I'm going to write this out to Dr. McTierney. She can hold it for you in trust. Until you need it."

Dean didn't bother to ask how much she was considering giving them, but he saw Sam's eyes go wide as she wrote out a figure.

"Thanks," stammered Sam. "That's uh, that's very generous."

She ripped the check out of the book, and gave it, and a business card to Sam. "I know the hunter lifestyle doesn't lend itself to a permanent residence, or possessions, but one day, you might feel the need to take a break. Call me if you ever need my help."

Throughout the conversation, Emma and Ben had stood by their mother, smiling at Dean and he couldn't believe the change in their demeanor. Especially Emma.

Their mother stood, gently stroked Emma's hair. "We have to go now. Why don't you two thank Sam and Dean?"

Emma turned to Sam, gave him a hug, as did Ben.

"Thanks Mr. Sam. Thank you for saving me and Emma," said Ben

"Yes," said Emma. "Thank you for letting me be like normal people."

Sam said that it was okay, that's what they did for a living, all the while looking horribly uncomfortable at the fact that they were hugging his knees.

They turned their attentions to Dean but seemed have been told that it was a strictly hands-off event with no cute hugging or hand holding. Emma thanked him again. Solemnly. Ben also thanked him and then insisted that he needed to take his _Spider-Man_ coloring book and crayons so he wouldn't be bored.

Well, he couldn't say 'no' to that. He always was a sucker for kids. Even ones that thought his coloring skills sucked.

"Hey, thanks," he told Ben as sincerely as possible. "I promise to color between the lines."

"Will you send me one when you finish it?

"Sure. Absolutely." He was as sincere as he could be, even though he didn't intend to ever fulfill that particular promise.

Susan thanked them again then ushered the children from the room, telling Sam they would see themselves out.

Sam picked up the coloring book, flicked the pages. Stopped at the single page that had been cut out and them jammed back in again. Burst out laughing before holding it up.

It was Dean's gay Spider-Man with fangs.

"I presume this is yours?"

"I was bored."

"Dude, that's sick."

"Spider-Man isn't my thing."

"You're not going to do that to the rest of the book are you?"

"No way. Ben will freak out."

"Cheryl's cooking up a storm. Something about steak burgers with home made potato wedges. I'll bring you up a plate."

Oh, hell yes. He really did love that woman to bits. Sam was walking out of the room and he called out after him. "Remember to bring the ketchup!"

"Okay! Keep your shirt on," called back Sam, already in the hallway.

The room was quiet again. He managed to rearrange himself into a position vaguely resembling comfortable. The _Spider-Man_ coloring book just sat there, taunting him. He opened it, keeping an ear out for the return of his baby brother and did some more unspeakable things to the superhero. He thought the bolts on Spidey's neck and the hideous scars were his best work yet.

{\\SN//}

Cheryl climbed the stairs and felt the kind of dread that came with having to tell patients bad news. Or in the case of Dean, that she wasn't the innocent baker of cookies and cupcakes he'd come to trust.

She knocked on the door, opened it, stuck her head around the edge to scope out the room. Sam was gone and Dean was half heartedly watching the TV. He noticed her straight away.

"Tell me you brought food."

She entered, went to sit on the chair. "Sorry, kiddo. No food."

"That's the toll for entry into my domain. Food. No food, no audience with me," he said jokingly.

"Clearly you're not a push-over then."

He laughed, and she watched him try to shift around without causing himself too much pain.

"I wanted to tell you something," she said, trying to keep a neutral expression on her face. Of course, he had years of experience in knowing when people were about to spring him with news he wouldn't like, so he picked up on it immediately.

"Like what? Do I have cancer? 'Cause although that would suck, it wouldn't be unexpected. You know, with the general theme of my life so far."

She shook her head. "No. You know how I told you that I was a doctor in the Army?"

"Uh huh."

"While I was in the Army, I was a psychiatrist. I specialized in helping troops with combat stress."

His initial expression appeared to be shock, and then she could see him putting two and two together. She waited for the yelling but it didn't happen. Not yet anyway.

"Did Bobby plan this?" He previously friendly tone of voice had vanished.

She nodded. "You have to understand that he's very fond of you. And Sam. I think he sees you almost like you're his own kids. He really did think the job was nothing you couldn't handle. He wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Answer the question."

She tried to keep her body language as neutral as possible. Arms resting by her sides. Legs straight out and not crossed. Nothing defensive in her posture whatsoever.

"Yes. He asked for my help. I volunteered."

"So Bobby thinks I've driven off the crazy cliff."

"No. Bobby does not think that. He thinks you both needed to talk to a neutral third party, who just might understand where you've been."

Dean pursed his lips, and she wondered how much trust she had blown by not telling him at the start. Thing was, Bobby was right – if she'd told him at the start he would have marched out the door and she never would have seen him again.

"Bobby trusts you," he said. It wasn't so much a question, as a statement.

"Yes. He trusts me."

"How'd you meet him?"

"I was treating a soldier back here for what I thought was a psychotic break. He kept claiming he saw demons in the ward. Then we had two patients die. Both times we couldn't find out how they managed to get out of their rooms. Next thing I know, I'm on the night shift and some guy turns up claiming that the ward is haunted. I go to get him thrown out by security and find that same solider in my office, holding a butcher's knife and telling me how he's going to rip out my heart and eat it. That was _not_ the guy I was treating. Even when he was psychotic. Next thing I know Bobby throws a handful of salt at him, douses him in holy water and starts reciting Latin."

"Let me guess. The whole office goes bat shit, furniture moves around and then smoke comes out of the guy's mouth."

"Yep, and right then I became an official member of the Bobby Singer fan club. Quit my job the next day, cashed in half of my stock options and came out here."

He seemed to be on the verge of a decision and he wasn't blowing his stack, for which she was grateful. Maybe she'd made a difference after all. Or at least, he didn't perceive her as a threat.

"Does Bobby, uh... You know – talk to you about shit?" Dean's face was as neutral as her posture.

"Yes, but don't tell him I said that. It's more like a chat over cups of coffee."

"Huh."

"So. You're okay with it?"

"You're not going to diagnose me or anything? I'm not taking meds."

"You've been certified sane."

He smiled then seemed to have an idea. "Feel free to give them to Sam though. He could use a dose of Prozac. It might cheer him up."

She returned his smile but then tried for a serious tone. "I'm not telling Sam. This is between you and me."

"Oh."

"I'm serious. Don't tell him. You two have lived in each other's damn pockets for too long. You need to have one thing that's private."

"We don't lie to each other. At least, we never used to."

"I'm not telling you to lie. I'm telling you to give yourself permission to have one thing in your life that's got nothing to do with Sam."

He seemed taken aback by the her stridency. "It's Sam."

"Look, I can't stop you, but without knowing too much about your childhood I can guess the general theme. Sam was the youngest and that means Sam got catered to more than you ever did. In fact, I would say right up until puberty the kid had both you and your father wrapped around his little finger."

Dean's eyes widened. Her supposition had been correct. She kept going. "This is one thing that Sam can't have."

"But if he wanted to, he could. Right?" His concern had shifted to his brother and she made a mental note to try and find out how one man's self worth could sink so low.

"Yes, if he wanted to. But I'm more concerned with you. I just want to make sure you're okay with this. That you're not upset."

He shook his head. "Nope. I don't think so anyway."

"Good. Okay, I'm going to get cookies."

"Thank, God. I was beginning to think you were going to talk all day."

"That's enough from you," she said. Then she stood up and went to leave the room. "See you soon."

"Hey... Cheryl."

She stopped in the doorway. "What is it, kiddo?"

"Promise me that if you see a chance, you'll talk to Sam. I mean, he could probably use someone too. You know. For coffee and stuff."

She couldn't really refuse him. "Sure thing. If Sam wants to talk, I'm right here. For both of you."

{\\SN//}

It had taken three days for the pain to subside enough to allow Dean to walk very far. They'd shifted him downstairs the next day, when he insisted on wanting to watch TV on a bigger TV and then he'd bitched the entire two days about a variety of irritations including the ice packs, the sound on the TV (too loud, or too soft), and the lack of reading material. He mostly stayed on his side, or front and watching him struggle to get comfortable made everyone else uncomfortable. When it rained, he'd fretted that the Impala was in the elements unprotected until Cheryl had told Sam to park the car in her garage.

When Bobby had innocently leaned over to peck Cheryl on the cheek while they were all watching TV, Dean had yelled that old person sex squicked him out and could they please not have any public displays of affection in his presence. Bobby had looked like he was going to give Dean a swift smack across the back of the head then stopped himself.

Sam for the most part, just tried to keep calm, made sure his brother was eating and sleeping, helped him hobble to the bathroom and made sure he didn't fall over in the shower. Apart from that he kept out of the way.

Bobby had taken Dean's general surliness to heart and gone out to change the Impala's air filter before Dean attempted to do it himself. After another few days he announced he was heading back to his yard, because Rumsfield Junior needed to be fed.

Cheryl had hugged him, promised to visit.

Sam had taken the Impala into the city to get a break and also on the pretext of buying one tiny thing that would cheer Dean up. He'd initially thought bear was the easiest and most sure bet then then his sense of humor had gone into overdrove when he'd walked past a Toys R Us. He'd bought a Hotwheels Mustang Cobra and a '69 Pontiac GTO. Hoped Dean would see the funny side.

Then he'd driven back at a leisurely pace, just pleased to not have to really worry about much at all. Dean would be itching to get back on the road but right here, right now they had a temporary home, and he'd decided that he was going to enjoy it as much as possible. He'd even cut back down on the demon blood, hadn't phoned Ruby at all since they'd arrived at Cheryl's place. The supply he had would last a couple of days at least and it was like a breeze had blown through his brain and dislodged some of the cobwebs.

Everything was good, and as long as the other side didn't turn up either – the angels – it was actually really like an honest to God vacation. Except for the bruises.

He came in through the back door, went into the kitchen to help himself to a cup of coffee, stopped himself at the entrance to the living room.

Cheryl and Dean were talking. He shouldn't eavesdrop, knew he shouldn't but he did anyway. He could tell Dean worshiped Cheryl, saw it on his face every time he talked to her. Dean softened a fraction every time he was in the room with her. And that was something he never saw in his brother. A softer side. One that wasn't being hurt, or doing the hurting.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Haven't had any bad nightmares for the last couple of days either."

"The prazosin seems to be working. You know, I can write you a scrip so you can keep taking it."

There was hesitation, Dean didn't immediately respond. "I dunno. What if Sam finds out?'

Sam could hear Cheryl smacking herself on the forehead from where he was standing.

"I think that you should care less about what other people think, and be more concerned for your own health. Besides, as far as your brother's concerned its for blood pressure."

"I haven't got high blood pressure."

"_Yet_. Remember, what I told you? It's borderline. You were 125 over 90 yesterday. A guy like you should be 120 over 80 at a minimum. I'd expect 110 over 80 or less."

"I'm not heart attack material."

"Crappy food, bad accommodation, long hours in the car - wait until you hit your forties and then tell me all about it."

Again, there was that pause. "Are you sure I'm sane? 'Cause Sam thinks I'm nuts."

Crap. There it was. Dean saying what Sam was too damn scared to admit to himself. He'd called it by other names. Said Dean wasn't entirely all there, that he was weak, that he needed help. He hadn't said the other words though. Crazy. Nuts. _Damaged_.

"I think I've told you this before, but I'll tell you again - you're officially sane. You've just been going through a fairly intense adjustment period with some PTSD and believe me, you'll get over it. As to Sam. Well, maybe you could also meet him half way and at least try to help him understand what you're going through."

"I'm not that good at explaining it. It pisses him off."

Ouch. That hurt. He didn't know why Dean would say that about him. He'd looked after Dean every time Dean was sick and hurting. Sat at his hospital bed. If nothing else, he was rock solid when it came to taking care of Dean when he got sick. Maybe not so much with the squirrelly behavior, but he was definitely good with the physical side. Of course he'd understand if Dean would just be a little better at telling him what was wrong. Indignation welled up and he felt like he should march in there and tell them exactly what he thought.

But he didn't. His guilty conscience, and the voice that had begun to sound like his father about a year ago, told him it wasn't his place to do that. It was no good getting snotty about the situation when you just had to look at the facts, his father's voice was saying. You've been distancing yourself, pulling back, like I did. You don't want him hurt again if this all goes wrong. It's better if he hates you because if he hates you he won't make a dumb deal ever again. He won't freaking sell himself to the next spawn of hell that oozes along and promises that if he sells himself, Sam will be saved. Sam was going to make sure that Dean was done with the self sacrificing because Sam knew that whatever happened next, Dean was in serious danger of losing himself.

He really wanted to explain that to his brother, put it all into words but couldn't. He knew Dean would go ballistic at Sam drinking demon blood and his continued association with Ruby. Dean wouldn't understand that Sam needed to be the one to sacrifice himself this time around. It wasn't such a big burden to bear compared to what Dean had done for Sam.

Sam heard Dean's voice. It was quiet and filled with a sadness Sam had never heard before. "I worry about Sam. You know, there's all that stuff he's dealing with and he's always wanted to just have a life. You know? Just a job, and a girlfriend and I guess, maybe he wanted a house or something. A life that didn't involve staying in flea pit motels."

"I told you, Dean. You can't take care of him forever. It's his choice. "

"No, it wasn't. I came looking for him. I dragged him back to hunting and I dragged him down with me. I ruined everything for him."

There was a noise, something like a sniff, or a sob and Sam stood there, nailed to the spot, realizing that Dean was crying. _Really_ crying and there was no way he could just walk into that room. No way. His brother deserved to cry in privacy.

He heard Cheryl again, her voice soft. Imagined that she had her hand on Dean's head.

"Sweetheart, it's okay. None of this is your fault. You've been used, like a pawn, and there's nothing you could have done about it. Okay?"

A pawn. That summed it up. And she was right. They were all pawns, desperately telling themselves that they had a choice, that it was about free will, but he was beginning to suspect that it wasn't right at all. Maybe the correct response was to stop fighting, give into the inevitable with fatalism and be done with it.

The soft sound of someone crying stopped and there was a shaky laugh from Dean.

"I know this is going to sound weird," said Dean. "But, uh, can I have a teaspoon?"

"Sure. You want to .. Stir coffee?"

"No. To keep."

"Um... Sure. I see no reason why you can't have a teaspoon."

"I've got fifteen of them."

"Teaspoons?"

"Yep. From everywhere I stayed for the past year."

He heard Cheryl laugh and before she could leave, Sam turned away, tip-toed back the kitchen to drink his coffee and pretend he hadn't heard a thing.

Soon as Dean was ready, he was going to take him to Huron.

{\\SN//}

It wasn't hard to find. A giant fiber glass bird perched on top of an old liquor store announced itself to everyone passing by. Especially since it towered over everything in the immediate vicinity - it's tail hung out over the parking lot and its yellow, unblinking eyes stared out over a grass field.

Dean was up and about but could only manage a few hours at a time sitting in the car. He still had to haul himself out for frequent rest stops but Dean seemed happy with the arrangement since it involved walking around and eating from the stash of cookies and chocolate cake that Cheryl had thrust in their direction after a mammoth baking session.

Sam tried not to hover and unobtrusively monitored Dean's pill consumption so that he took them on a regular basis. He pretended he didn't see Dean take the prazosin and would continue to do so. At some point during the trip, Dean had made some random comment about going back to Cheryl's for coffee at some point and Sam had mumbled, "Sure, don't see why not." Even though he wasn't sure what he was going to say to the woman. It had been nice enough, but... He was a Winchester and Winchesters didn't talk about the family business.

They both walked up the viewing platform, Sam dug out his cellphone, thought he would take a photo of Dean looking happy.

"Dean, stand still. I want to get this."

Dean pulled a face. "Get a shot of the pheasant, not me."

"I was going to take a photo of you _and_ the giant freaky bird."

He felt a tap on his shoulder. A young couple were standing behind him.

"Would you like us to take a photo of both of you?"

He hesitated, unused to offers of help from strangers. "Oh. Are you sure? I mean, my brother and I were just sort of visiting."

The man laughed at that. "Visiting. Tell me that you're just _visiting_ when we see you at the giant buffalo."

"There's a giant buffalo?" Dean could hardly contain himself.

The woman laughed. "I know, weird but cool. Have you seen the giant otter in Minnesota?"

Sam shook his head. Dean looked like he'd just discovered a new hobby.

The man put an arm around the woman. "We're doing a road trip of all the giant statues we can find. Next stop, the giant prairie dog in Cactus Flats." He didn't wait from Sam to say another word. "I know. Weird."

"No. Actually, it sounds like fun."

"That it is, my friend. That it is."

Sam handed over his cellphone, showed them how to take a photo. He stood beside Dean, paused a moment before putting an arm around his brother's shoulders. Dean frowned at him, then smiled, did the same.

The man took the photo and showed it to them.

"It's a good photo," said the man, handing back the phone.

"Thanks for taking it," said Sam. He meant it.

Both brothers peered at the tiny screen on the cellphone. Dean seemed uncharacteristically quiet, smart ass remarks unforthcoming.

They were both staring at a photo of two brothers, grinning like maniacs, in front of a garishly painted bird and even though it looked like them, _was them_, it felt like they were someone else.

See, there were just these two guys, taking a road trip around America. One of them was on sabbatical from Stanford. The other was going back to his job as a mechanic when they were done. They were still young so there was plenty of time to catch up on the day-to-day stuff of average lives when they got back. The taller guy had a girlfriend anyway, and she'd been calling him, asking him when he was coming home. The other one needed to get back to his job and figure out how to start his own business. He wanted to own an auto shop of his own. Fix classic cars.

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, we look..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Uh. Like ordinary people. Normal. Don't ya think?"

Sam didn't acknowledge him for a moment, just stared at the photo and what it symbolized and what he desperately wanted for both of them. Just to be able to exist, and not be weighed down by the responsibilities of Heaven and hell and the world.

"Yeah," he said. "We do."

Then Dean shut the phone, handed it back to Sam and they walked back to the car in silence.

The End.


End file.
